


In the Pale Golden Light of the December Sun

by Candamira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Banter, Blood, Bookstores, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: hd_erised, Death Eaters, Drarry, Getting Together, HP: EWE, Happy Ending, Head Auror Harry Potter, Horcruxes, Humor, Knockturn Alley, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Post-Hogwarts, Snow, Temporary Character Death, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-06 08:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12813708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/pseuds/Candamira
Summary: When Head Auror Potter needs a front for an undercover operation, a last, desperate strike against the Death Eaters, Draco Malfoy's old and rarely frequented second-hand bookshop on Knockturn Alley seems the perfect location. Though Draco has his own problems to deal with – hurting scars, painful visions of the Dark Lord, breathing trouble – and is not in the mood for adventures at all, he soon finds himself at the centre of the escalating events.





	In the Pale Golden Light of the December Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SqueekaCuomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SqueekaCuomo/gifts).



> Merry Erised, dear Squeeka! I hope you enjoy where I went with your prompt. 
> 
> A big shout out to my fantastic Alpha/Beta team, you are the best. Thank you for all your invaluable help and feedback.  
> And many, many thanks to the kind mods who make this fest the incredible experience it is every year. Let's not mention the word 'extension' here. *coughs* 
> 
> Merry Christmas to you all!

Harry screwed up the piece of purple paper in his hands. For the second time in his life, a letter changed everything. The first had been his Hogwarts letter, now it was Kingsley cutting back the Auror department's budget in a totally unacceptable way.

"Kingsley, I hope this is a misunderstanding!" Harry threw the balled-up note on his friend's file-covered desk and refused to sit down despite Kingsley's inviting gesture. "Budget cuts by fifty percent? How are we supposed to continue on the same quality level when you grant us only half of our usual budget? The department runs like clockwork, and Ron's long-term strategy is finally paying off. Death Eaters are falling into our hands like ripe apples from a tree!"

Kingsley sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and, letting out a slow breath, opened them again. Harry ignored the display of forced patience and started ticking off arguments on his fingers.

"Undercover Aurors control the Death Eaters' black-market transactions, we've established Aurors as go-betweens in their drug and potion cartels, we're dogging their every step! We're the only team who exceeds expectations every year!" Harry stepped forward until his thighs touched the desk's edge and bent forward to lay the full weight of his best look of reproach on Kingsley. "We've set up extensive surveillance of their abandoned homes. Sooner or later they will return to get their hidden treasures. And I'm not just speaking of Galleons here. Have you ever been in the evidence room? It's full of their weird stuff, Dark artefacts and books on Dark magic that give you the chills! We'll get them all, eventually. But we need time!" He hated how his fury turned into pleading at the end of his speech.

"Harry, please. Sit down." Kingsley took off his embroidered cap and ran a hand over the dark skin beneath. Erratic shadows of the snow flurry created by the enchanted window drifted across his haggard face. "This wasn't a careless decision. Ron's strategy doesn't only lead to arrests but also produces costs at record level. I financed it mainly with reparations, and even though the Goblins at Gringotts worked wonders, that source is nearly exhausted."

"But we're this close—" Harry lifted his pinched thumb and index finger, "to smashing a Death Eater potions ring in Scotland. They’re even trying to sell the bloody stuff to the Hogwarts students! Our undercover agent reported they plan to recruit some of the older students as dealers inside the school. We need just a few more weeks—"

"Harry." Kingsley just looked at him. The lines in his face had deepened over the last years, and there was a tiredness carved into his features that spoke of sleepless nights and constant worry. "I'm sorry. If I could see any other options …"

Harry deflated. "I know," he murmured. "You want them locked away in Azkaban as much as I do."

Kingsley nodded, and for a moment the passion of the ex-Auror he was glimmered in his eyes. "Absolutely. I wish they were my only concern. But someone has to take care of stimulating the economy, employment promotion, family support… "

Harry threw his hands up in the air. "Yeah, yeah. Spare me."

Kingsley's bald head shone in the winter sun as he put on his cap again. "I expect you, Ron and Hermione for a presentation of more cost-effective alternatives on Monday."

***

Snowflakes drifted by the enchanted window of Kingsley's office and filtered the fading daylight like a lace curtain.

"So." Kingsley put the teapot down on his desk. "Now that you're all fed and watered, show me what you have."

Harry sat back, brushing Hermione's arm, and nursed the black Ministry mug. This was Ron's show.

"Ron had a fantastic idea." Hermione burst with pride. "Really, it's brilliant. Tell him, Ron." Her wedding ring flashed golden as she patted Ron's thigh. Ron swallowed the last bite of his scone, cast a longing look at the remaining ones in the basket on Kingsley's desk and sighed. "Delicious," he said and reached out for the next.

"Ron!" Hermione said in an undertone of peevishness and slapped his hand away. Harry grinned and shrugged as Kingsley quirked an eyebrow at him in amusement. Food would always be Ron's favourite topic.

"What?" Ron looked offended. "It's polite to compliment the host on the food."

Hermione sat back in her chair between him and Harry and crossed her arms. "If it wasn't for his rare outbursts of genius …," she said to no one in particular.

"Does anybody know what she means by rare?" Ron threw his wife a feigned look of bewilderment. "Er, well, then. The new strategy. We can't go after the Death Eaters anymore, so we must make them come to us. By offering them something they really want we can lure them in and catch them in the act. The old story of cheese and mice. Why don't we start an old bookshop in Knockturn and spread the rumour it sells Dark books and artefacts under the counter? Hermione checked the evidence room. There are tons of books of dubious but harmless content we could actually sell, but also lots of the really bizarre and dangerous stuff that makes a Death Eater jump for joy. I'm sure they won't be able to resist the appeal of such a shop!"

Ron flashed his broad, winning grin at Kingsley. "What do you think?"

Kingsley sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly. A slow smile spread across his face. "A brilliant idea, indeed!"

Ron held up his hand for a high-five over Hermione's head, and Harry was just about to slap his palm, when Kingsley said, "But."

Hermione's springy locks tickled Harry's cheek as he turned his head to look at his boss. "What – but?"

Kingsley stood and planted his hands on the desk, the embroidery on his cap glittering in a ray of sunlight sneaking through the lace veil of snow. Harry sat back, caught in Kingsley's dark-brown gaze.

"Who do you brilliant geniuses think should run that shop? The Death Eaters won't come shopping in Head Auror Harry Potter's bookshop, will they?"

***

"Tea, please," Draco said to Mrs McMillagan, stunned anew – like every morning – by her resemblance to Minerva McGonagall. The same beady, brown eyes, the same annoying penchant for wearing tartan, and the same harsh Scottish accent. Since she had taken over the tearoom across from his shop, Draco's days on Knockturn Alley had become bearable. Unlike McGonagall, Mrs McMillagan had taken an immediate liking to him and vice versa.

"Och hen, ye look terrible. What was it this time? Nightmaur or pain attack?"

"Tea," Draco said again, then smiled when her question actually registered. "Both, can you imagine? The same dream again, the one I told you about. Where the big snake forces me to speak Parseltongue and curls around me and squeezes the air out of me when I can't do it. That's when I usually wake up because I can't breathe. And because my face and chest hurt like someone stabbed me with a knife." He dropped some coins onto the counter. "Here, keep the rest, please. Salazar, am I looking forward to a cup of tea! It's getting worse, you know? I don't even know when I last had a full night's sleep."

Mrs McMillagan cocked her head and looked at him with eyes full of sympathy. "Poor hen. Mebbe that's because your shop is haunted. Ye know what they whisper up and down Knockturn, don't ye? That the evil spirits of Borgin and Burke can't leave the place before having taken revenge on their murderer?"

"Rumours." Draco waved the word away with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "The only evil that has remained are some of their so-called 'objects with unusual and powerful properties' in the stockroom. And believe me, they aren't worth bothering with. I'll never touch one of those again."

"Sounds like a story ye must tell me one day."

"Of course, but be warned. It's not a pleasant one."

"Hen, I run a tearoom oan Knockturn Alley. I'm used tae unpleasant stories. How about chamomile tea today instead of Darjeelin'? Better fer yer nerves." She reached across the counter to pat his cheek, then went to take care of the whistling kettle.

Draco swallowed; kindness had become a rare experience since the war. The world still wasn't a friendly place for someone who had supported the Dark Lord. People had forgotten neither the heroes nor the villains. Out of sight, out of mind had proved an excellent tactic to avoid people's wrath. Even though Potter's testimony had saved him from ending up in Azkaban, nobody really believed in his innocence. They all thought Potter had – well, not lied, but bent the truth to save a fellow student. Because saving people was Potter's thing.

Draco sighed. Compared to Azkaban, spending his days in a second hand bookshop, selling what was left of the manor's library, didn't sound too bad. Especially not when he could have a nice hot cup of tea with Mrs McMillagan from time to time. No chamomile, though.

"Chamomile? Only if you want me to fall asleep as soon as I shut the door behind me, my dear lady. Darjeeling it is, please." He smiled at Mrs McMillagan's half-angry, half-worried snort.

"Haur." She handed him the mug, the tea bag floating in the hot water. "I hope ye two are gonnae be happy wi' each other."

"Och aye, mem."

Draco grinned when she wagged her finger at him for mimicking her accent. Dear Mrs McMillagan; a cup of tea and a chat with her were the best counteragent for his sorrows.

Draco took great care not to spill his tea on the short way from Mrs McMillagan's to his own shop. A few stray snowflakes were wafting by, and a thin layer of frost covered the ground, glittering where the sun found a way through the clouds.

A post owl pecked at one of the two large windows, just when he'd put his mug down on the counter. Glad to still be wearing his cloak, he faced the cold once more, tossed the bird a treat and pulled the thin parchment roll from the leather loop attached to its leg. Shoving the door closed with his hip, Draco unrolled the message. A certain Mrs Faggle reported that a carnivorous softback was making trouble in her house.

Most people – reasonable people – used post owls to transport their unwanted magical books to his shop, but Mrs Faggle wrote she was afraid the book would eat the bird and required someone to come and fetch the 'lethal piece of literature', as she quite exaggeratedly put it.

Draco checked the address. Hogsmeade. Oh well – the first customers wouldn't make an appearance before dusk, this was Knockturn, after all. A half day out of the shop, a little walk in fresh air – maybe he would feel better afterwards. He fetched the lockable book box from the storage room, made sure his wand was tucked into the inside pocket of his cloak, pulled the hood over his distinctive hair and hid his hands in the dragonhide gloves. Norwegian Ridgeback, just like his boots. He sighed. Even though they looked quite similar, they just weren't a match to the fine Hungarian Horntail leather ones he'd preferred – and been able to afford – before the war.

***

Entering Hogsmeade was a shock. On Knockturn, nobody bothered to decorate their shop. Hogsmeade, by contrast, was a child's Christmas dream come true. Salazar, all those holly wreaths and fairy lights, the mixed smells of hot chocolate and pumpkin juice, butterbeer and roasted chestnuts! Not to mention the crowds of wizarding folk in their multicoloured cloaks. It would've been overwhelming even without the clouds of heavy perfume trailing after the witches shuffling along the shop windows in search of early Christmas bargains.

Christmas. Without somebody to think of and buy a present for, Draco had almost forgotten about the holiday. Perhaps he should send a card to Pansy and Blaise. Christmas was the time for forgiveness, after all. After the war, he, Pansy and Blaise had been closer than ever, it had been them against the hostile rest of the world. But he'd never confused their friendship with love; with neither of the two. It hadn't stopped them from falling in unrequited love with him, though. And they acted as if it was his fault. Bound together by the mutual feeling that Draco had led them on to let them down, they had moved to Italy three years ago.

On second thought, writing a card was a bad idea. Blaise was too proud, and Pansy had always had an unforgiving character. They would only hate him more for reminding them of the embarrassing misunderstanding, if that was even possible. No, doing nothing was better than making it worse by a half-hearted attempt at making amends.

A sheen of melting snowflakes had settled on Draco's shoulders and hood when he arrived at Mrs Faggle's cottage at the edge of Hogsmeade. Breathing had become hard as if there wasn't enough space in his chest for his lungs to fill with air. Hopefully only a reaction to the unfamiliar onslaught of sensory impressions. Anyway. Everything was fine as long as the pressure didn't turn into one of the cruel pain-attacks that plagued him on a daily basis by now. Pulling off a glove, he knocked on Mrs Faggle's door. It opened so fast his knuckles almost collided with Mrs Faggle's nose.

"Are you the book hunter? Oh, thank goodness. Come in, come in!"

Mrs Faggle grabbed Draco's left hand – he was carrying the book box under his right arm – and pulled him inside with astonishing strength for such a frail, elegant lady. The colour of her hair and robe matched the whiff of lavender enveloping her.

"Let's hang up your cloak. These gloves are gorgeous, though I prefer woolen ones, if I may say so."

"Norwegian Ridgeback," Draco said, following her into a narrow hallway. The rose-patterned wallpaper was a dizzying contrast to the lavender scent Mrs Faggle exuded with every move. Draco breathed through his mouth, but it didn't help – the initially delicate odour became overpowering and constricted his windpipe.

"Bathroom," he choked.

Mrs Faggle put his gloves down on a small console beside the wardrobe hooks. "Oh please, don't tell me you're having an anxiety attack. I expressly declared I need an expert. An _experienced_ expert." She looked him up and down, then sighed. "Now, now, young man. No need to panic. It's just a book. Dangerous, but still just a book."

Now, now? Salazar, he was close to dying! "Bathroom," he gasped out, supporting himself against the wall. His scars itched, hot and swollen. "Please."

"Calm down, young man." Her voice had lost the acerbic tone as she opened a door to the right for him. "Here. The bathroom."

Draco dashed inside and bolted the door. " _Muffliato_."

His scars were burning, as well as his lungs. He clutched his chest, stabs of pain jolting through his body.

"Come on." The Dark Lord's voice was as cold and silky and weirdly cheerful as ever.

Draco fell to the ground, red eyes burned into his tightly shut ones. "Can't … I can't …"

"Come on, Draco. Talk to Nagini. Do it, or do you need another taste of our displeasure?"

"No, no, please …" In an explosion of agony, Draco writhed on the black and white tiles. Nagini slithered closer, her big, ugly head swaying above his face as if she was listening intently. He shuddered in pain and disgust as she wound the tip of her tail around his chest and squeezed.

Her forked tongue tickled his face when she hissed, "You will sssspeak now."

"Sssssssssss," he lisped, the sound escaping his mouth on a forced exhale. "Tssss."

"Good boy," Nagini whispered. "Good boy." Her heavy head swung around to the shadowy figure with the red eyes. "You were right, my Lord. He is a Parselmouth. Just needed some tweaking."

The Dark Lord's eyes glowed. "For once you're meeting my expectations, Draco. It took you long enough, I was close to doubting my assumption. But today you proved I was right. My legacy survived in you. I can see that now."

The pain stopped, and Draco opened his eyes, heaving like he had emerged from deep water. The room was empty, everything looked normal. Only a faint throbbing in his scars, like a heartbeat thrice as fast as his own, proved he hadn't dreamt the incident.

"Hello? Young man, are you alright in there?" Mrs Faggle knocked on the door, sounding worried.

"Yes, just … a coughing fit." Draco got up and washed his hands, splashing water on his clammy face. It stared back at him in the mirror above the sink, as pale as ever. No noticeable difference. He shrugged, unsure what he'd expected to see. The Dark Lord's red eyes staring back at him out of his own face, or his nose turning into snake-like slits? Utter nonsense. He snorted, dried his cheeks and picked up the book box.

Opening the door with fake flourish, he stuck his head out and looked up and down the short hallway – no Mrs Faggle. No problem, the lavender trail led him straight to the living room.

It was a sight to behold. Mrs Faggle was tip-toeing around the room with a cast-iron pan raised high above her head, peering into corners and behind a rose-patterned sofa flanked by two matching armchairs.

"Mrs Faggle!" Draco said after a moment of devout watching. "Er, don't hurt yourself, please. I’ll take over from here."

"Oh, have you finally decided to reappear? I hope you cleaned up after yourself." Mrs Faggle threw him a stern look, but lowered her arm and sank on the sofa, exuding another wave of lavender. "Go ahead, then." She folded her hands over the pan in her lap.

Draco set the book box on the shiny floor boards and opened the flap to reveal the piece of dried meat he'd placed inside. No carnivorous book could resist the allure of a treat like that.

"It shouldn't take long now," he said to Mrs Faggle who had pulled her feet up on a – surprise – rose-patterned footstool. Just in time, as the softback scuttled forth from under one of the armchairs. Pages rustling, it covered the small distance to the box in record speed – in comparison to the heavy tomes Draco usually dealt with – and flattened itself onto the meat with opened pages. Draco closed the trap, the padlock snapping shut with a rich click.

Mrs Faggle laid the pan aside, applauded, and stood up. She clasped his hand with both of her hers and exhaled audibly through pursed lips. "So that was it, wasn't it? Thank you, young man. Thank you. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Tea, yes. A cup of tea would soothe his frayed nerves. Draco was tempted for a second until, suspecting rose-patterned cups on a rose-embroidered tablecloth, he shook his head. "No, thank you. I have to return to my shop." He freed his hand from Mrs Faggle's grip and lifted the book box.

Mrs Faggle winked at him and caressed the box with a fond look. "I understand. It was a nice companion as long as it kept to the mice. But all good things come to an end, right?"

Draco nodded. "I suppose so. Goodbye, Mrs Faggle. I’ll find my own way out."

Outside, he looked up at the clouds. Grey, yet oddly blinding, the sky stretched over the village. An icy drizzle pricked Draco's cheeks, a welcome relief after Mrs Faggle's lavender-saturated cottage. He inhaled deeply, straining the scars on his chest. The throbbing had subsided, but breathing had become a conscious effort as if Nagini's weight was still pressing him down.

***

After the Christmas madness of Hogsmeade, Draco welcomed the bleakness of Knockturn; it was relaxing to the eye. Of course, a holly swag or two would appear over the next few days, as well as the occasional window framed with fairy lights, but going by his experiences of previous years, Christmas was a modest affair on Knockturn Alley.

Back at the shop, Draco put the book box down on the counter and hung his rain-soaked cloak on the hook beside the door to the back office. Leaving more wet footprints on the worn floorboards, he piled some logs into the fireplace. " _Incendio_!"

Flames leapt up from the wood and started their restless dance. Over the hissing and spitting, Draco almost failed to hear the poor post owl's attempts to catch his attention. It was a miracle the bird hadn't broken a wing with its increasingly aggressive attacks at the window left of the door when he let it in. Not being the forgiving kind, the owl shook its sodden feathers until Draco was equally drenched before it allowed him to untie the parchment roll dangling from its leg. He shivered in the cold wind entering the shop as he opened the door wide enough for the bird to fly through.

Two letters in one day. Wow. Draco was well on the way to becoming as popular as Potter. A growing puddle of water gathering around his feet, he stood as close to the fire as possible and smoothed out the folds in the thick parchment. The energetic spiky writing was distinctive. He wiped a wet strand of hair out of his face with a shaky hand. Letters from Shacklebolt had the potential to change his entire life. Like the one the Minister had sent five years ago to inform him that Potter's testimony had spared him from Azkaban.

He skimmed over the lines. A meeting, with Shacklebolt and—

Yes, he hadn't misread. With Shacklebolt and Potter. Head Auror Potter. Who filled Azkaban's cells with Death Eaters and the _Prophet_ 's front pages with his face and interviews. Though Draco loathed Rita Skeeter with a vengeance, her wild speculations about the state of Potter's marriage had amused him no end. The woman knew how to belabour a subject – rumours of secret affairs, of talks held with divorce lawyers, of sightings that could only mean reunion, and, finally, of the divorce.

So what. Potter still had a career that rocketed skywards faster than any Snitch Draco had ever chased, and more wannabe-girlfriends queueing up at his bedroom door than he could handle.

In stark contrast to Draco. He snorted and looked around his shop, only inhabited by shelves sparsely filled with old books and miscellaneous odds and ends, dust bunnies and shadows. And a carnivorous softback he would set free in the storage room. If one thing wasn't scarce on Knockturn, it was mice.

***

Draco sat in one of the three chairs in front of Shacklebolt's desk and raised his brows at the Minister when the door to the office slammed open.

"Kingsley, I hope this won't take too long— what's he doing here?"

Potter was two minutes late and had entered without knocking. Manners were still an issue, it seemed. Draco turned in his chair, but the snarky remark died on his tongue. Potter had changed. For the better. A lot better. More than Draco was prepared for, despite the pictures in the _Prophet_. Head tilted, Potter stared at Draco in disbelief. His unruly hair shone black, even in the snow-dimmed light. The frock-coat cut of his black Auror robe suited him annoyingly well. And his boots! Hot envy flashed through Draco. Boots like Potter's – Welsh Green – cost a fortune.

Draco wriggled his toes in his worn Norwegian Ridgebacks and answered Potter's green glare with a thin smile. "You have one guess."

"No." Potter turned to face Shacklebolt fast enough to make the tails of his robe whirl around his thighs. "When you said you’d found the perfect candidate for the job—"

"I spoke of Mr Malfoy, yes." Shacklebolt's voice was calm and composed. "You know just as well as I do that he grew up in pureblood circles and knows quite a few Death Eaters' faces. He is also familiar with the right kind of literature and objects, and he can certainly provide us with some advice on items that will be of keen interest to the Death Eaters."

Potter didn't look convinced. He squinted at Shacklebolt as if he had to check he was speaking to the right person. "I can't believe you’re forcing me to bounce trusted Aurors who spent years in service risking their lives and then make _him_ my partner."

Shacklebolt's greying brows furrowed. "He's the best-suited man for the job. I didn't expect your school rivalry to be a problem here. You spoke on his behalf at the trials, after all."

Potter gave a one-shouldered shrug and curled one corner of his mouth in a sneery half-smile. "I didn't let him die in the Fiendfyre, either. Doesn't mean I want to spend day and night with him."

Draco stood up, wiping his clammy hands on his trousers. Though Potter looked delicious enough to make it a hard decision whether to spend day or night with him – enough was enough. The thought of a chance to redeem himself had been tempting, but he should've known it wouldn't work. He'd always be an arch-scoundrel in everybody's eyes, no matter how hard he tried. Subjecting himself to his vengeful former allies, the spite of the public, and Potter's open hostility just wasn't on.

"As much as I appreciate the offer," he said to the Minister, smoothing the front of his robe, "I decline."

A thunderstorm brewed on Shacklebolt's face. "I don't have time for such nonsense. If you can't behave like adults, consider the whole project cancelled."

Draco locked eyes with Potter. Potter stared back, unblinking. Then his gaze dropped to Draco's mouth, and from there, slow and hot and sweet like molten caramel, it inched over Draco's chest and belly, his crotch and thighs. "Well, then. Welcome to the team, Malfoy."

Kingsley ran a hand over his face, picked up a report and started reading. "I expect weekly reports of your progress."

***

"You can come through now. The windows are dirty enough to be obscure, and the door is locked," Draco said to Potter's glowing face looking up at him from the ashes in his shop's massive stone fireplace.

"Good old Borgin and Burkes. I bet you feel quite at home there." Potter's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"You know why I spent so much time here. And why I did the things I did. _He_ was holding my parents hostage …" Draco's scars were burning and the smoke of the smouldering fire made breathing difficult. He was angry; it was utterly frustrating to have to justify his actions again and again. Gasping for air, he nearly doubled over as pain seared through the old cuts on his chest.

"What are you doing there?" Potter asked, pushing his face further out of the embers.

"Coughing fit," Draco choked. And then he couldn't talk anymore. The pain peaked, red eyes stared at him, and Nagini hissed into his ears. "How are you, little Parssselmouthssss? Ssssssspeak to me, ssssspeak …"

"Ssssssss," he whispered, rolling on his side and clutching his chest. "Yessssss."

"Good," the Dark Lord said. His strange voice, cold, merry and mean at the same time, seeped through the scars into Draco's ribcage and froze his lungs.

"Can't breathssssss." Little lights popped up inside his head, this time he wouldn't survive. He scrabbled at his chest, convinced he would find his robe soaked with his own blood.

Nagini coiled around him, her smooth body a warm merciless weight. He wanted to vomit, sick from the weird movement of her thick muscles under the patterned skin, but his throat was too tight. "Can't breathsssss …" he whispered, unable to look away from the red eyes that examined him with clinical interest.

"Good. Expect it to get worse. It's growing, it's getting stronger." Amusement rang in the Dark Lord's voice.

Nagini's embrace grew tighter. "Ssssssoooon, sssssooooon." The two tips of her tongue prickled over Draco's lips. Then her giant head, so strange and disgusting, sank onto his chest, onto his burning scars, and she became smaller and smaller. But that ugly head of hers remained big enough to stretch the cuts when she slithered into him. He screamed, from pain as much as from loathing, until she coiled up in his ribcage and pressed the air out of his lungs again.

"Fuck, Malfoy! Wake up and tell me what happened."

Draco took a tentative breath and when it didn't hurt, opened his eyes. Potter crouched at his side, stoppering a small vial.

Draco waved a hand in front of his face. "Salazar, that smells horrible."

Potter pushed the small glass container back into a holster at his thigh. Draco caught a glimpse of two or three more vials before the tails of Potter's robe fell back into place.

"Smelling salts. A standard feature of the Auror emergency kit." Potter patted his thigh where the holster wrapped around it. "What's wrong with you? First I heard you scream like a banshee, and when I stepped out of the fireplace you were lying on the floor gasping and tearing at your robe as if it were suffocating you!"

"I caught a splinter in my finger and then inhaled too much smoke." Draco put his forefinger into his mouth, pretending to suck out a sliver. Potter didn't buy it, of course not. A change of topic, a distraction, was what the situation called for.

"What do you think?" Draco asked. He stood up, brushed ash and dust from his cloak and gestured around the shop as if he were an estate agent. "The right size, from behind the counter we can see everyone who wants to enter the shop through the windows left and right of the door, and the back office is big enough for you, Granger and Weasley."

The flames in the fireplace leapt up green and fierce, and Weasley stepped out from under the mantelpiece, followed some seconds later by Granger.

"Huh, what a dump," she said, screwing up her nose. "That smell … did something die in here? Is Malfoy okay?"

"He says he is," Potter answered, his voice thick with disbelief.

"I am." Draco coughed and lifted his outstretched forefinger. "Just a splinter and too much smoke."

"Sounds dangerous. I bet you barely survived." Weasley sneered at Draco. He wandered along the dusty shelves and peered out of the dirty windows. Nodding slowly, he joined them at the counter. "Kingsley's right. It's the perfect location."

"I'm glad my survival is of such importance to you, Weasley. I was close to suffocating, actually. And splinters often cause sepsis." Draco ignored Weasley's eye-roll. "But fine, one more important piece of information. Did I mention that two days ago some of the giant spiders sold in the shop across the street broke free?"

Watching Weasley grow green around the gills, Granger taking his hand in silent support and Potter reaching for the smelling salts again was priceless.

***

"Granger, your shelf is too tidy. You won't find a bookshelf in Knockturn that's sorted by the last names of the authors, or by size or colour of the books. The customers here are used to dirt and chaos. Borgin and Burkes were clever salesmen, after all. The shop was well sorted and organised, but they took great effort to hide that fact. The few precious items they had on display stood out like treasures against the surrounding chaos. You Aurors should spend more time exploring Knockturn, really." Draco shook his head and coughed as a cloud of dust rose from his hair.

"Merlin, Malfoy. Are you serious? No one ever scolded me for being too orderly." Granger let herself slide down the front of the shelf until she sat on the floor. Her fingertips left dusty stripes on her forehead as she raked one hand through her hair.

"There's a first time for everything, it seems," she said, sounding resigned. "I hate to admit it, but setting up a chaotic bookshelf is actually a thing my husband is better at than me."

Weasley hurried over to crouch down beside her. "Are you okay?" he asked, his large freckled hand cupping her cheek. Only after she had nodded once did he look up at Draco, blue eyes dark with anger. "Why can't you leave her alone?"

Draco shrugged, tired of Weasley's constant bickering. "I'm just doing my bloody job." _And you morons make it as difficult as it can be_.

Weasley didn't reply. He helped Granger stand up. Draco looked at her, she was the most reasonable of the three. "Granger, look, I—"

She cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. "Never mind. I'll go and make tea."

"Brilliant idea," Draco said, though Granger managed to ruin every pot of tea she made. It always turned out too strong and bitter. Shuddering inside, Draco pointed at the shelf Weasley had stocked. Stacks of small books were crammed on the boards beside thick leather-bound tomes. Any gaps between books and the board above he'd stuffed with thin volumes. "Weasley, your wife is right. You're a natural slob."

"Did you hear that, Ron? Draco Malfoy officially acknowledged your talent for stuffing bookshelves in a Death Eater-appealing way. You can die a happy man." Potter leaned against the counter, arms crossed and blowing a black curl out of his face. "I can't wait for your verdict on my work."

Potter had cleaned the two small glass cabinets in the windows, and on the midnight-blue velvet bolstering, glittering like stars in the night sky, lay—

Draco gasped at the sight of the opal necklace. "Is that the one …?"

Potter nodded, brows slightly raised. "Exactly. The one you tried to poison Dumbledore with. Nothing gets lost in the evidence room. Your old friends will love it, won't they? Especially when we spread the rumour that the curse still works."

"They are no frien—"

"Though I think they will be even more impressed by this." Potter produced a golden ring from his pocket. It was a large finger ring, clumsily made, and the setting that must have had contained a gem once, was empty.

"Are you sure? It doesn't look very awe-inspiring to me. What's the deal with it?" The thing was downright ugly.

"This," Potter said, slowly turning the ring on the blue velvet, "is the only former Horcrux that was also a Hallow."

"A Horcrux? What's that? And a Hallow … what Hallow? Salazar, I'm part of this team, I shouldn't have to worm any important piece of information out of you!" Draco grew angry. And frustrated. Potter might just as well be speaking Mermish.

"How can you not know about Horcruxes and Hallows? Didn't your mother read _Beedle the Bard_ to you?"

"Of course, she did. But that's a fairytale for children. You can’t be referring to the Hallows in the book …" Draco stared down at the ring. "And even if you were, none of the Hallows was a ring!"

"Well observed, Malfoy. It wasn't the ring as a whole, only the gem that's missing now. Did you ever wonder why Voldemort looked as weird and inhuman as he did? Because he was barely human anymore. He'd performed the Darkest kind of magic and split his soul into seven parts. Six parts he hid in things like this ring. Things containing a piece of a soul are called Horcruxes. Though it doesn't have to be things, soul slivers can also get hidden in people. I was the seventh Horcrux without even knowing." Potter had gazed at the ring while he was speaking. Now he looked up into Draco's eyes. "For someone who wants to worship the Dark Lord, what could be of higher value to them than this ring that once contained a piece of his soul and also the Resurrection Stone that could bring him back?"

"I— I …" Draco sat down on the floor despite the dirt. "I can't … I've never heard about— He split his soul into seven parts?" A part of Voldemort had been hidden in Potter. Had survived inside him. Incredible. Impossible. Although, the Dark Lord had always boasted about knowing magic no one else did. "And one was hidden in you? How could you not know it was there? Didn't you feel it?"

"I felt it," Potter said, a distant look in his eyes. "If I had known the symptoms, it would've been obvious. I could speak Parseltongue. My scar burned and hurt like hell when he got angry, and then I caught glimpses of him, saw through his eyes … but I didn't know that was only possible because I had part of his soul in me."

Oh dear Salazar. _Parseltongue_. _My legacy survived in you_. Visions of the Dark Lord. Scars that burned and hurt. Could it be? The thought was sickening. "I still don't get it. How could a part of him get inside you?"

"That's complicated. If I wanted the whole world to know about all this, I'd have agreed to an interview with Skeeter."

"No, please explain. I must know everything about the ring and these … Horcruxes to spread the word and lure Death Eaters into the shop."

"He's right, Harry," Granger said. "Tell him."

"Yeah, do it. I'd like to see whether he can get any paler than he already is," Weasley added. _Freckled idiot_.

Potter sighed and sent the ring spinning again. Watching it was like being pulled into the swirl of memories in a Pensieve.

"It happened when he tried to kill me as a child."

The golden swirls cleared. A woman, her eyes as green as Potter's, was pleading for his – _Harry's_ – life. Mid-word, the garish flash of _Avada Kedavra_ cut her off.

"The Killing Curse rebounded on him, and a fragment of his soul was blasted apart and latched on to mine."

The echo of crippling agony seared through Draco, reduced him to a raw, screaming bundle of nearly nothing.

"Like a parasite, it grew and became stronger, like the connection between our minds. It could only be killed by him."

The ring lay still now, and while Draco stared down at it, it gleamed in a thin ray of sunlight sneaking through the almost blind window. Draco winced, it was as if fate had winked at him. "But how was that possible without him killing you?"

"It wasn't. I died that night of the battle. I let him murder me." Potter sounded astonishingly matter-of-fact as he placed a small white card beside the ring. Do not touch, it read.

"Don't touch it, please." He shut the glass lid over the ring. "I put a new curse on it. The first touch will release a strong _Incarcerous_."

Draco was still processing what Potter had said. "When you say you died, you mean …"

"I mean that I died."

Draco couldn't detect mockery or a lie in Potter's green eyes when he continued. "And then I was given the chance to return to life. That's how I survived Voldemort's attempt to kill me again. All other Horcruxes had already been destroyed, except Nagini. He had become vulnerable, but still believed he was invincible. He just didn't learn his lesson. When he tried to finish me off for the third time, his Killing Curse rebounded once more and he died by his own hand."

That was true, Draco had seen Potter's _Expelliarmus_ collide with the Dark Lord's _Avada Kedavra_ , and then Potter had stood with two wands in his hands and _he_ had hit the ground, dead and shrunken, the red glow fading from his eyes. A tickle ran along the scar crossing Draco's heart like a flame racing down a fuse. He scratched his chest, rubbed at the soft fabric of his robe. It only made the itch worse.

"But how—" Potter's whole story was fantastic, Draco didn't even know where to start asking questions. "How did you manage to survive his attacks three times?"

"I don't know for sure. Basically, it was my mother's love and sacrifice that protected me, but there was more to it. Even Dumbledore didn't fully understand the magic involved and only had some vague theories about everything. But the explanations he gave me made sense, so I believe he was right."

"Potter, are you aware of what you're telling me here? Every Death Eater would die – or kill, rather – to get to know how you were able to overcome the Dark Lord!" Draco didn't have to fake the excitement in his voice.

Assuming he wasn't losing his mind, wasn't a severe case of a nutter who belonged in the Janus Thickey Ward, then Potter's weird story about slivers of the Dark Lord's soul that latched onto other people was the only other explanation for his visions and nightmares that made sense. Accepting new premises and going down roads he'd never dared or wanted to set foot on were child's play since the Dark Lord had lived in the manor and ruled his life. So. Perhaps, or quite likely, he was a Horcrux. Problem identified. Now he needed more information to work out a solution.

"This place will be overrun by them as soon as the word spreads that I know the whole story and even sell objects proving it's true. You have to tell me everything. I have to know what happened in detail as if I experienced it myself."

"Spoken like a true Slytherin," Weasley said. "Harry, as much as I hate to admit it, the idea is excellent. You don't mind if 'Mione and I call it a day, do you?' He unfolded his long legs and reached out for Granger's hand.

"Er, no, I …"

"I think that is supposed to mean he doesn't," Draco said. "Why the glare, Potter? I'm only trying to be helpful."

Potter twisted his mouth into that annoyingly attractive half-sneer. His eyes were drawn to the ceiling, and his wand was out before Draco could blink. "Don't move," he whispered.

Draco froze on the spot. It hadn't been a joke that a few of the giant spiders sold across the street had escaped.

"Conjure yourself a comfortable chair, Malfoy, it's going to be a long night." Weasley's laughter rang eerily from the empty fireplace where the green flames flickered up one last time.

"He does get paler," Potter shouted after him, lowering his wand and smiling sweetly at Draco.

***

Potter's undercover Aurors had done a marvellous job. The rumour of the mysterious shop owner who knew more about the inexplicable defeat of the Dark Lord by Harry Potter had spread like wildfire. Draco had already identified two underlings who had obviously been sent to test the waters. He'd fed them some juicy bits of information, just enough to lure the big fish – like Dolohov or Rookwood – in for more.

"I consider specialising in anything having to do with aphrodisiacs. Books, potions, powders, perfumes, ingredients, amulets … They buy what they can get, as long as I have an engrossing story to tell," Draco said one evening, replenishing the shelves under the counter with some harmless artefacts Granger had brought from the evidence room. "It's only a legend," he continued in a deep hollow voice, "but since the days of the first spells, people have believed in the power of the mighty Acromantula's leg hair. Shaved off a beast killed at full moon, boiled in the blood of an Ashwinder for an hour, it grants a lover the stamina of a lion when eaten at midnight on a loved one's grave with a golden spoon."

"Malfoy," Granger cried. "That's disgusting!"

"But that's it!" Weasley dusted off his hands on his trousers.

"Careful, Granger. Watch your golden spoons," Draco mock-whispered at her across the room.

"Wait," she whispered back. "I think he’s having one of his rare moments of ingenuity."

"Haha," Weasley said, not sounding offended in the slightest. Really nice how some things changed with time.

"Malfoy is right, we—"

"Hear, hear. Potter, did you hear that? Please say you heard it. It will make you turn in your grave." Draco sneaked up on Potter who was filling the gaps in the shelves left by books that had been sold with fresh ones from the evidence room. He lifted a silky black curl from Potter's ear and whispered, "Weasley says I'm right."

Potter batted his hand away without turning around. "Go on, Ron. He's high on praise, I think we'll have to lock him up in the loo until he comes down again. Merlin, those addicts …"

Draco kept his pose, bent forward over Potter's shoulder, lips close to his ear, for another breath. Potter's scent conjured memories of the ocean, of diving through cold waves and surfacing to warm sunshine, and of the salty taste of spray.

"Ron," Potter called, "hurry. It's getting worse, he's sniffing me. I'm afraid he's had too much of the Acromantula leg hair!" He straightened up, and for the blink of an eye, his cheek brushed Draco's chin and the arm of his glasses caught on Draco's nose. They both reached up to their faces, fingers colliding, eyes meeting.

"Sorry," Draco whispered, cursing the heat flooding his cheeks.

Potter nodded and took off his glasses, still holding Draco's gaze. A slow smile curved his lips. "Have another noseful," he murmured and tilted his head, offering his ear. "You seem to need it."

 _Damn_. _Damn_!

"What an elegant return to topic," Weasley said, unaware of them trading barbs. "The thing is, people tend to believe what they most wish for, they would even eat a giant spider's leg hair when promised something they truly desire in turn. The Death Eaters don't want to hear about Voldemort's death, they want him back. We must offer them hope!" His freckles performed a merry dance on his nose as he grinned at them.

"Malfoy, do you think you can make tea? Yours is the best. And Harry, would you conjure some chairs? I have a new plan to explain to you."

"Make tea, conjure chairs … We need a house-elf!" Draco muttered on his way to the back office, blinking at Granger who scowled at his words.

"No," Weasley said, "what we need is a Horcrux. And tea, if you wouldn't mind."

Draco stopped dead in his tracks, glad he wasn't carrying anything because he certainly would've dropped it. "Tea and a Horcrux, of course. If I only could remember in which drawer I last saw the latter …"

"Merlin, Malfoy. I don't want you to get a Horcrux, I want you to _be_ a Horcrux. You were almost as much a pet to Voldemort as Nagini. The Death Eaters will believe a rumour saying you are the last Horcrux."

The thing inside Draco shifted, taking his breath away for a split second. He should say something now, tell them that it wouldn't be a rumour, but a fact. Just … He looked at their open faces. Potter caught his eyes and curled the corner of his mouth into that damn sexy half-smile, half-sneer. They hadn't become best friends yet, but they were on the right path. They were a team. He'd never thought of himself as a team player, and looking back, he'd never had the chance to find out. Even as Seeker of the Slytherin team he'd been a lone fighter. No, his life was taking a turn for the better, and he wouldn't risk that. They wouldn't be able to help anyway. Potter had said it himself: The only way to get rid of a Horcrux was to die.

The tea was excellent. Weasley's plan wasn't. Too sketchy, too many opportunities to fail. But Draco would play along until—

Well. Until.

***

Two days later Draco sat in front of the fireplace in his otherwise dark bedroom, twirled two fingers – or two and a half, who cared – of Firewhisky in a cut-glass tumbler and watched the honey-coloured patterns skim over the walls. Sometimes it helped to ignore the tickle at his scars, but tonight even Ogden's Finest was losing the battle against the increasing prickle that made Draco want to scratch his chest raw. He stared into the flames, fingers curled stubbornly around his glass and the armrest of the leather chair. The sound of a foreign heartbeat was back, thudding in his ears, disturbing the rhythm of his own.

"Look who's sitting here, all cosy, while the rest of us are freezing our arses off in some shady hideaway. Malfoy junior." A large figure peeled out of the darkness of the hallway, the Lumosed tip of their wand aimed at Draco's heart.

So it began. Draco sat still, only tilted his head into the direction of the speaker. The voice was familiar, that affected drawl— Dolohov! Yes, that long, pale face, now close enough to be visible in the light of the fire, always twisted as if the man were smelling something disgusting, was Dolohov's.

"Antonin," Draco said, his own voice strange in his ears, barely louder than the race of the two heartbeats. "What do you want?"

Dolohov took the tumbler from Draco's hand, and, his wand tip never wavering, downed the expensive stuff in hasty, greedy gulps. That bet Draco had won, Potter had been sure it would be Rookwood or Macnair who would come for Draco. But Draco knew Dolohov, knew the man's ruthless ambition and slyness – he wouldn't miss a chance of gaining glory and the Dark Lord's gratitude for bringing the last Horcrux into their power.

"Ah, that was good." Dolohov licked his lips, stepped closer to the fire and put the glass down on the mantelpiece. "Ogden's is hard to get when every wine cellar worth breaking in is being watched by a bunch of Aurors."

"You came to break into my wine cellar?" Draco said. "Then grave disappointment awaits you. It's empty, the Dark Lord had a keen penchant for French wine."

"Straight to the point. Our Dark Lord and his penchants. Is it true, then?" Dolohov drew out his vowels even more in his excitement. Or from the Firewhisky, who knew.

"Is what true?" Draco leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. Dolohov's lips straightened into a thin smile.

"You know what I'm talking about." He gave up his relaxed pose at the mantelpiece and stepped closer. Draco narrowed his eyes against the blinding wandlight.

"His penchant for snakes. Big ones like Nagini, and little Slytherins like you. For making them into Horcruxes. I warn you, Malfoy. Those nice tales of Hallows and Horcruxes you told Dickson and Bobbs … and now rumour has it you are a Horcrux ... comes a bit out of the blue, five years after the war. I don't know what you're up to, but I hope you’ve made a will because you won't live to make one if I catch the slightest whiff of a trap."

Another tickle ran along Draco's scars. He clutched his chest, tore at the buttons, and still the thing inside him expanded, squeezed the air out of his lungs and didn't leave space to fill them again.

"What, you have nothing to say on the matter?" Dolohov stepped forward until his shadowed face loomed up high over Draco.

Draco rubbed his chest again where his scars burned like freshly cut wounds. "It's true. I can prove it," he choked out.

He looked down at the row of small buttons running down his robe, expecting to see blood stains grow on the hunter green fabric. It was dry and clean, but something was moving there, under his skin, pressing up against his palm. Panting for breath, frantically scrabbling at the buttons to open the robe, he slid from the chair to the floor. Salazar, this was so horribly squirmy. He retched, dry, fruitless heaves, and clawed at his chest. Fabric and flesh bulged under his shaky hands. Oh no, the thing – _the Dark Lord_ – would break through his skin, would hurt him—

"Malfoy? If this is a trick …"

Dolohov's voice drowned in the thunder of heartbeats and the sound of fabric tearing. The pain peaked. Draco screamed; his scars, the tissue stretched unbearably, were ruptured, and thick, black smoke rose from his chest. Writhing on the floor, Dolohov's dirty boots only inches from his face, Draco watched the pillars of smoke interweave and become more solid. The figure shifted; first it was Nagini swaying over him, then the Dark Lord's wide red eyes stared down at him.

"Soon," his cold, gloating voice whispered in Draco's mind, effortlessly drowning out the galloping pulse. "Soon," the Dark Lord hissed again and Nagini's muscles constricted around Draco until he heard his bones crack. "Soon I will return, more powerful than ever. It is too early to summon my faithful, but let's give them a sign that my revival is near. Nagini, let go, we need him. Still."

Nagini slithered away, her weight leaving Draco's body, and he breathed, breathed—

Pain flared up in his wrist; a stab, hot and sharp. It was gone faster than the scream dying in his throat, giving way to the weird feeling of lines unfolding underneath his skin. He sat up, gasping, and tucked some sweaty strands of hair behind his ears. As always, no visible proof of what had just happened remained. Not a button of his robe was missing, nor was blood pooling on the polished parquet.

Dolohov stood rooted to the spot, face twisted in real horror. "What was that? If you're putting on a show—"

"Here's your proof," Draco said and pushed up his sleeve.

Black against his pale skin the snake protruded from the skull, following the blueish shadows of his veins.

The Dark Mark was back.

Dolohov's wand cluttered away in the darkness as the large wizard dropped to his knees, tugging at his own sleeve. The horror on his face turned into devotion when the red lines on his forearm bloomed as if drawn anew with fresh black ink.

"It's true. He will rise again," Dolohov whispered, tracing the mark with his fingers. "He will rise and reward those who remained loyal to him. Who helped him revive." He looked up at Draco, and the calculating meanness in his eyes was back. He wanted to be the one to earn the Dark Lord's gratefulness. The only one.

He grabbed his wand; a short crooked thing that couldn't have rolled farther away if it had wanted. Prodding Draco's forehead with the tip, he drawled, "Tell me, Malfoy. What does he need to return?"

***

Side-Along Apparition with Dolohov was an unpleasant affair. Draco rubbed his upper arm where the Death Eater had grabbed him with bruising strength. The dark silhouettes of tombstones rose up from the ground around him and, mostly hidden behind a large yew tree to the right, the outline of a small church stood out against the night sky. He craned his neck to look up at the large marble headstone behind him. Dolohov ran his wandlight over the inscription.

TOM RIDDLE

Only the name, nothing else. No hint at who Tom Riddle had been, no date of birth or death. Draco shuddered; so that was what happened when someone died alone and lonely, uncared for. Someone like him. "His father's grave," he said.

"Right. Where else would we get a 'bone of the father, unknowingly given'? Let's look for that stone cauldron you talked about. I'm sure Wormtail hid it somewhere nearby." Dolohov looked around, but Draco saw it first. Disguised as a plant tub, speckled with patches of grey lichen and velvety moss, it stood on a simple slab covering a narrow grave. A big boxtree, once cut to a perfect globe, grew from the cauldron, surrounded by long vines of ivy that hung over the rim.

"Here. On … Lioba Lispen's grave." The thin, curly inscription was hard to read in the dark.

" _Wingardium Leviosa_." Dolohov lifted the cauldron into the air and turned it upside down with a little loop of his wand. " _Scourgify_."

Plants and earth dropped onto the stone plate, and without a glance at the spot where Lioba's name had vanished under the contents of the cauldron, Dolohov levitated the heavy thing to the grave of Tom Riddle. Snow crunched loudly in the cold, quiet air as it touched the ground. "And now," Dolohov said and pointed his wand at Draco, "let's take care of you."

Thin ropes shot out of the darkness and tightened around him. Another flick of Dolohov's wand, and Draco sat bound to the headstone, nearly strangled by the ropes around his neck and torso, unable to move a finger. Cold wetness seeped through the fabric of his robe and trousers.

Dolohov nudged his shin with the tip of his boot. "Not that cosy anymore, huh? It's nothing personal, don't get me wrong. A simple safety measure to make sure nothing happens to you. It's too easy to get lost here stumbling around in the dark, right?" Dolohov's face contorted even more when he sneered at Draco. "We have the cauldron, and access to the bone. What else is necessary?"

***

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The overstuffed armchairs he'd conjured in the back office of Malfoy's shop were almost too comfortable to stay awake. Now he regretted having rejected Ron's offer to take over the first watch, but a few hours ago he'd been burning for action, too agitated to sleep anyway. The excitement had worn off with every minute that ticked by. Staring at the map of Little Hangleton graveyard until it grew blurry before his tired eyes without falling asleep was hard work. Nothing had happened since his watch had begun, except for the changing tone of Ron's snores from time to time and Hermione's constant shifting in her seat.

For the umpteenth time Harry checked if the Homunculus Spell was still active. It was. He smirked to himself and stood up to pour himself another cup of tea; Malfoy's excellent Darjeeling was the only thing preventing him from falling asleep.

He was stirring in the third spoonful of sugar when it happened. Two black dots, as small as flyspecks, appeared on the map, each neatly labelled with a name. Harry almost sloshed tea on Ron's shoulder in his attempt to wake him up.

"Ron! Ron, wake up. Malfoy, it's Dolohov who came for him."

"Bloody Malfoy," Ron muttered, hoarse from snoring. "That bet you lost against him. He knows his Death Eaters."

He yawned, then stood up to look at the map. "Mate, Dolohov's dot is gone. I think he's left to get you." He shot Harry a worried smile. "Malfoy's is still there."

"Everything's going according to plan, then, right?" Harry said. "Time for me to leave and make myself an easy target for Dolohov." He put a hand on Hermione's shoulder on his way to the fireplace. She shifted under his touch. "Hermione."

She rubbed her eyes. "Are you leaving?"

Harry's answer drowned in the sound of shattering glass. Trading looks with his friends, he tore open the door to the salesroom. The second window burst into a million shards, hit by orange flashes of magic. Glass slivers shot through the room and scattered all over the floor.

Harry grabbed Hermione around the waist and pulled her down, using the armchair as cover. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Ron crouching behind the other. "Death Eaters," he whispered as black-hooded figures climbed through the holes and went straight for the back office.

"Go, Harry," Ron shouted over the clamour of heavy boots and splitting glass. " _Stupefy_!" A red flash shot from the tip of his wand and one of the Death Eaters flew backwards out of the window. Ron used the moment of surprise to dive-roll to Hermione's side and shoved Harry to the fireplace behind them. "Hermione and I will handle this."

"You sure?"

"Yes, Harry." Hermione peered over the armrest and ducked just in time to dodge a well-aimed Stunner. " _Flipendo_ ," she screamed, knocking out the Death Eater who had tried to immobilise her. "Go now." For a second, her brown eyes locked with Harry's. "Be careful."

"Okay. Cover me!" Without looking back, Harry ran to the fireplace. The red and green jets of spells illuminated the shop while Ron and Hermione fired curse after curse at the intruders. Harry snatched the beautiful green and silver bowl from the mantelpiece, one of the few things Malfoy had brought from the manor not for selling but because he liked them. Just when he opened it, a particularly loud curse exploded behind him. He jerked, and the bowl slipped from his hand and smashed on the floor. A cloud of Floo powder rose from the shards, and covered in the silvery dust, Harry jumped into the fireplace.

"Ministry of Magic!" The fire flared up brilliant green.

"No, Hermione. 'Mione? Nooo!" Desperation rang in Ron's scream.

Harry tried to get out, to fight the pull of the Floo network's magic, but the spinning rush was unstoppable. Ron's voice faded away in the emerald swirl of flames.

***

The cold had become a friend, kindly numbing Draco's limbs. Wire-thin ropes bound him to the headstone and cut into his flesh whenever he tried to find a more comfortable position. Even worse, the foreign heartbeat was back. Louder than Draco's own, confounding it. His chest rose and fell in the rhythm of whatever was growing inside him. It was revolting, unbearable. All he wanted was for it to be over, _overoveroveroverov_ —

"Don't fight it," the Dark Lord said, gleeful as ever. "Be proud to be my host, just like your parents were. And do as I say, or you'll regret it. Haven't I proved my power over your worthless little life time and again? It's mine to take." The pressure on Draco's lungs increased for a split second, then subsided. Draco gulped in the icy air; it tasted of snow. His closed lids offered no shelter from the red eyes with the slit pupils. They stared straight into his, the glare as much a threat as the words.

"I know," Draco said, still fighting for air. "What do you want, my Lord?"

"The time for my rebirth is close, so close." The Dark Lord smiled, revealing yellow teeth behind thin lips. "It must be a glorious event my faithful shall never forget. But there is not much splendour in mixing a handful of dust, some drops of blood and a hacked-off hand in a cauldron full of water, is it?" His mad cackle filled Draco's mind, grew shriller until his head was about to burst. "The ritual must reflect my power, my strength, my grandeur."

"Of course, my Lord," Draco wheezed.

The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed and he put a finger to his lips. "I liked the potion Wormtail made for me. For my own private pleasure only, back then, but it will also leave a deep impression in any witness's mind. The surface sparkled like diamonds and the liquid itself changed colour whenever he added an ingredient. And steam, I need a lot of steam. That is what I demand, little Parselmouth. A sparkling potion for the miracle and thick steam for the mystery."

Draco bit his lip, choking the hysterical laughter bottled up in his throat. A sparkling potion, able to change colour and emitting steam, very well. And how about soap bubbles and fairy lights, and perhaps paper streamers and confetti? Somehow it had sounded much more impressive when Potter had told the story.

"As you wish," he said when he trusted his voice again. "So you want your, er, … faithful to watch your resurrection?"

"Haven't I made that clear enough?" The pain was back, searing despite the cold. Like pale spiders with crooked legs the Dark Lord's large hands rested on Draco's chest, sinking ragged nails through the skin and tearing open his scars. Draco screamed, but his voice drowned in the mad cackle, and he couldn't stand the sound, couldn't bear this any more, he wanted it to be _overoveroverover_.

***

Malfoy was screaming like a banshee again and writhing in the ropes tying him to the headstone of Riddle senior's grave.

"Horcrux or not, he's getting on my nerves," Dolohov muttered and let Harry slide from his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. Thank Merlin for the snow softening the impact. Dolohov's _Petrificus Totalus_ wouldn't wear off anytime soon.

So all Harry could do was watch as Dolohov went and hit Malfoy in the face. "Stop screaming!"

Harry would've winced at the hard slap, but still couldn't move. Malfoy snapped open his eyes, just to press them shut again at the sight of Dolohov's furious face. The tip of Dolohov's wand dug into Malfoy's chin. "What's wrong with you? Do I have to silence you?"

Malfoy gave a minute shake of his head. "No." He took a deep breath. Merlin, he looked so relieved, as if breathing was a big thing. His gaze flickered to Harry, then locked on Dolohov's twisted features. "You got him."

Instead of an answer, Dolohov lifted Harry up and slammed his limp body down on the cracked slab beside Malfoy. "Sneaked up on him at the entrance to the Ministry. Somehow they all think nothing can happen to them there. Stunned him before he knew it." He kicked Harry's ribs. "Head Auror, my arse. He was easy prey."

Harry mentally gritted his teeth. _Wait, you stupid arsehole, until Head Auror My Arse locks you up in Azkaban_. _Prisoners like you make me rethink banning the Dementors_.

Dolohov straightened and dusted down his robe. A futile gesture, not even one of Molly's laundry spells could have saved the thing. Harry wriggled his fingers and waited until the last touch of Dolohov's slimy magic that had been wrapped around him as tightly as the clingfilm Aunt Petunia had used for Dudley's school sandwiches, dissolved. He lifted his head. "What's—"

Dolohov was upon him in a heartbeat, conjuring more of the thin ropes that also bound Malfoy to the headstone. Only when he was tied up, the thin cords pulled so tight they cut into his muscles under the thick wool of his cloak, did Dolohov step back.

"What a nice couple you make," he said, a sneer intensifying the twist of his mouth. "My Lord will be more than pleased to find the two of you here, nicely wrapped up and at his beck and call. Which brings me back on topic. Bone, enemy, servant," he pointed at the grave, at Harry and at Malfoy, "I think we can get started, can't we?" His sneer turned into a broad, expectant smile.

Malfoy smiled, too. "No, actually. The Dark Lord has some more orders for you before we can begin. You must get some more ingredients for the Resurrection Potion."

Harry saw his own surprise mirrored on Dolohov's features. This wasn't going according to plan, they had agreed on water instead of a potion as not even Harry knew the ingredients Wormtail had used for the Resurrection Potion. He tried to catch Malfoy's eyes, but Malfoy kept his fixed on Dolohov.

"What ingredients?" Dolohov snarled.

"One regular vial of multicoloured fairy wings, two spoonfuls of powdered moonstone, and a pinch of Erumpent Horn powder."

Malfoy wouldn't do that without a reason.

Harry let his eyes wander over the barely recognisable outline of the hill rising to their left. The ruin of Riddle house stared back at him, the windows black holes in the grey stone walls. He checked each window, watched out for a wandlight blinking in the agreed sequence of short-long-long-short. Nothing moved in the dark rooms, except the moonlight reflecting here and there off a shard of glass that still stuck to the frames. No sign of Ron, Hermione and the Aurors. Harry worried his lower lip. Ron wasn't there. His desperate cry resounded in Harry's mind. Something bad must've happened.

Dolohov stared at Malfoy as if he'd asked him to steal the moon from the sky. "Multicoloured fairy wings? Doesn't sound like an ingredient the Dark Lord would ask for." The tip of his wand was poking into Malfoy's chin again, and Dolohov's nose was only an inch from Malfoy's. "If you're trying to wind me up, Malfoy …"

"I don't. I wouldn't dare!"

Harry looked at Malfoy, the sharp angles of his profile so familiar since their first year at Hogwarts. Seven years of mutual loathing – strange how fast they had overcome those deeply ingrained feelings. Harry bit down hard on his lip until he tasted blood. Perhaps he had been right in his initial disbelief in Malfoy's change of mind.

That assault in the shop … destroying their plan like that … turn Harry in ... let the Death Eaters have their fun with him ... it was exactly what the old Malfoy would've done.

Perhaps it had been wrong to throw caution to the wind and trust this new Malfoy. But it had been so easy to do. Too easy, maybe, in hindsight. Harry wouldn't put it past the old Malfoy to help things along with some drops of Gregory's Unctuous Unction in the tea they had all grown so fond of.

He looked at Malfoy again. Moonlight suited him well, adding a silvery shine to his fair hair that hung messed up into his face and over his grey eyes. It hurt to think of him as a traitor. Harry didn't want to think of him as traitor. Malfoy was fun to be around once his sarcasm had lost its sting, and he had a fresh way of thinking. He'd filled a gap in their team they hadn't realised was there. And yet, Harry should have trusted his instincts, should've kept a professional distance, instead of—

 _Oh Merlin_.

Instead of falling head over heels for Malfoy. Harry groaned and swallowed, the taste of iron still strong in his mouth. In love with a Death Eater. _Brilliant, Potter. Now I'm really curious how you will get out of this one_.

Dolohov reluctantly slid his wand away. Still glaring at Malfoy he hissed, "Fine. Make sure you don't scream your head off again. Or you'll both regret it." He turned on the spot, his dirty robe swirling, and Disapparated.

***

"Why did you send him away for potion ingredients? We agreed on water! What kind of potion are you making him brew?"

Potter was upset, the anger in his words was unmistakeable. As was the well-known distrust in his narrowed eyes. Salazar, if only Draco could tell Potter the truth! But Potter was a Gryffindor, straightforward in all that he did. To Potter, Weasley and Granger their simple plan was obviously a masterpiece of slyness and cunning; Potter wouldn't understand and much less trust the winding ways of Slytherin thinking. No, Draco had to prove his trustworthiness by his actions. Even if it meant keeping Potter in the dark and arousing his suspicion.

"A harmless one, my mother used the ingredients for my bath when I was a child. For change of colour, a bit of glitter, some steam," Draco said, a drop of venom in his voice. "I'm playing for time because Weasley seems to be running late. What the hell is taking him so long?"

Potter strained his muscles under the bindings and clenched his fists. "Death Eaters attacked the shop just as I was leaving." He looked away from Draco and focused on Riddle House. His eyes shone clear and green in the moonlight as they snapped back to Draco. "And I hope it's got nothing to do with you." His unspoken afterthought hung in the air as if written in flaming letters. _You'll regret it if it does_.

Oh dear Salazar. Draco's arse was frozen to the ground, even the tiniest move hurt because of the tight ropes, the Dark Lord was about to rip his chest apart – hell, if there had ever been a good time to drool over a passionate, tousled Potter who was trying to break free from his shackles by sheer muscle power, it was now. He might never get the chance again.

"You think I sent Death Eaters to attack you?" he asked.

Potter didn't answer; his eyes kept skimming the horizon for any sign of arriving Aurors. Draco turned his head a bit more in his direction, as much as the ropes allowed, and inhaled the comforting scent of summer skin and ocean. To his surprise, Potter tilted his head, too. Strands of his wavy hair tickled Draco's ear and the rim of Potter's glasses pressed cold against his temple.

"Merlin, Malfoy." Potter sounded sad. So disappointed. It definitely wouldn't help to tell him about the Horcrux situation now. Draco had no choice but to keep his horrible secret to himself.

"You damn bastard. You really made me believe the only thing you were up to was getting into my pants."

 _That, too, Potter_. _That, too_.

***

Harry kept struggling against the ropes whenever Dolohov wasn't looking. The Death Eater had been quite busy – the fire under the large stone cauldron crackled and hissed and the potion he had concocted by following Malfoy's instructions glowed milky blue. From the glittering surface blue sparks were shooting up into the star-studded sky. It was nearly impossible to see anything outside the small area illuminated by both the fire and potion.

If Ron had arrived in the meantime, he hadn't set off the flare yet. The Riddle ruin sat on the hilltop, hunched like a giant beast, the empty windows staring black and lifeless. And the bloody cords rather cut through his cloak than wear through by being chafed up and down the rough edges of the headstone.

On top of all the shite, Malfoy wouldn't spill the beans about what he was up to. Which wasn't much of a consolation, given the fact that Dolohov would kill them both without hesitation as soon as it dawned on him that there was no Horcrux.

Dolohov's twisted features, demonic in the glow and shadow of the flames, turned towards them. "So far, so good," he growled, his wand pointed at the cracked stone they were sitting on. "And now, the moment of truth." Despite his grumpy disposition, he obviously couldn't fight a moment of emotion. He inhaled and spoke slowly, " _Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son_!"

A thin pillar of dust rose from the crack.

"It works," Dolohov whispered. He funnelled the dust into the cauldron.

"Thank Merlin you didn't tell him the piece of soul has to go in first," Harry murmured into Malfoy's ear.

Malfoy slumped in the ropes. "What?" he whispered. "Is that true?" His face was as pale as moonlight. "You never told me!"

A fountain of green sparks erupted as soon as the last particle had sunk into the potion. The milky blue turned into a garish, poisonous green.

"Of course I did!"

"No, you—"

"What now? Flesh?" Dolohov asked, silencing Malfoy by pointing his wand tip at him. "Or blood?" He aimed at Harry.

"Flesh," Harry said. Not only because it was true, but also because maiming himself might slow Dolohov down enough to give Harry time to break free from his bonds and reach the wand in his boot.

"Good, I was looking forward to that part of the ritual." Some large steps, and Dolohov's smell insulted Harry's nose as he crouched at Malfoy's side. "Such long, slender fingers," he said. "How many do I need, what do you think, little Malfoy?"

"I wouldn't hurt the Horcrux, if I were you," Harry said before Malfoy could even open his mouth. "What if you accidentally hurt the piece of soul of, er, your master?"

Dolohov hesitated and looked at Harry with narrowed eyes. "Very well. I take yours instead. Your blood is required anyway."

Harry shook his head. "My flesh won't do. I'm not a willing servant."

It took Dolohov some heartbeats to understand, then his gaze dropped to his own hand, the one not holding the wand.

"Yes, Antonin. We all have to make a sacrifice." Malfoy's voice was soft like silk. "But I'm sure the Dark Lord will know how to reward you. Just think how grateful he will be! What's a hand compared to the riches he will offer you in return?"

"A hand?" Dolohov squeaked.

"Wormtail gave a hand," Harry said. "And you certainly don't want to give less than that sorry excuse for a wizard, do you?"

Dolohov stood up, his eyes still on his hand. "No." The affected drawl had disappeared, the word came out like a whimper. But Dolohov was much tougher than Wormtail. He walked back to the cauldron and stretched his left arm over the surface. " _Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master_." His eyes never left his hand as he circled his wrist with his wand. " _Diffindo_."

Dolohov's scream cut through the night, interrupted by the odd splashing sound of his hand hitting the surface of the potion. A beam of white sparks exploded from the cauldron and turned pink as it carried the blood spluttering from the wound with it high up into the sky. His face twisted worse than ever, Dolohov fell to his knees and cradled the stump to his chest. He swayed, his breathing ragged and forced.

 _Let him black out, please_ … _Please, Merlin, some more minutes_ …

"Do you think the ritual works even if the soul fragment is added last?" Malfoy muttered under his breath.

"I have no idea. It hardly matters, does it?" Harry writhed in his fetters, but the ropes, thin as they were, still held. He stopped his efforts when Dolohov looked up and straight at him. Where Wormtail had sobbed and moaned in agony, Dolohov remained silent after the first cry; only his face, contorted into a grimace of hate and pain, gave away he was suffering.

The big Death Eater struggled to his feet.

The ropes didn't give an inch despite Harry's desperate squirming.

"Hold still," Dolohov snarled. He crouched at Harry's side, ungraceful, his bleeding wrist pressed to his chest, and hacked at Harry's hand with his wand. Harry couldn't help it, his scream of pain pierced the night as had Dolohov's minutes before. Blood spilled from the stab wound, and Dolohov staggered back to the cauldron.

" _Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken_ ," he choked out through lips white with strain, putting one foot before the other, " _you will resurrect your foe_." He let Harry's blood drip from his wand into the potion.

The liquid hissed and boiled up, sending silver sparks in all directions. Blinded, Dolohov stepped back and stumbled over Malfoy's feet. A surprised squeak escaped his mouth, then his head hit the cracked stone with a smashing, final thud.

There was no obvious wound nor blood, yet he didn't curse or moan from pain, or try get up.

"Antonin?" Malfoy nudged him with his foot, in vain. Dolohov's head lolled to the side, his nose poking Harry's shin.

"He's dead," Harry said. "Malfoy, he's dead! Oh, thank Merlin!"

Malfoy didn't reply, just gazed at the Death Eater in shock. "No," he said. "He can't be dead."

Harry started struggling against the bindings again with fresh strength. "Why not? Because he is such a dear friend of yours that you can't stand him being dead?"

Malfoy shot him a sour look and shook his head. "Because we would be free then. When someone dies, all their spells end."

Harry gave up his futile attempts. So Dolohov wasn't dead, but he didn't look as if he'd come around soon either. They would have to wait for the spell to wear off, but that wasn't too bad now that they were no longer in danger of getting killed at any moment.

Malfoy had gone still. He just sat there, unblinking and stiff like a statue.

"Malfoy?"

Malfoy opened his mouth and his scream filled the graveyard, full of horror and pain.

***

"Such a good boy, our little Parselmouth," the Dark Lord hissed in Draco's mind. "Come, Nagini. Everything is prepared for our return." Without warning pain, so powerful he was sure he must be ripped in two, seared through Draco's chest.

He opened his mouth to scream, but he was out of air. Something small hit his chin, and without looking down, he knew what it was. The buttons of his robe were popping off the fabric that slowly tore where the skin underneath bulged again and again, the creature inside him straining his flesh nauseatingly with every thrust. Coiled up between his lungs, it choked him, ripped him apart.

Air, he needed air. Already the little lights announcing the end glowed up in his head while darkness closed in on him. Darker, and always darker, until even the last pinpoint of brightness vanished.

***

Malfoy's scream lasted less than a second. His mouth snapped shut, only to open again for desperate gulps of air. His chest rose and fell – no, it rose … and rose … until the small buttons burst off like the sparks emanating from the potion. Harry turned his head away as one almost hit him in the eye.

The sound of fabric ripping apart made him look back again. Malfoy's robe was split open from throat to navel, exposing his white skin, stretched so badly it was translucent in the light of the moon and the potion. Long scars ran across his chest, the tissue close to bursting. Harry focused on the longest one running parallel to Malfoy's sternum, where something dark pushed against the skin from underneath. 

Harry writhed in his bonds like mad. Watching this was horrible, but having to watch without being able to do something about it was the worst.

The potion turned wild. An eddy of sparks rushed high up into the darkness, mercilessly illuminating every detail. One last, mighty push of the … _the thing_ inside Malfoy, and his chest burst open. Harry winced at the revolting sound of skin being torn. A head squashed out of the slit in slow, agonising thrusts, dark, reddish, scaly, and then the rest of a small body slid out of Malfoy in a rush of blood.

It was a tiny, baby-like creature, much tinier than the one Harry had seen at King's Cross station after he'd been killed by Voldemort. Head and face were more snake-like, the arms and legs short and stunted and despite it being so small and feeble, Harry shuddered in disgust. The motion seemed to catch its interest. Glowing red eyes locked with Harry's as the creature licked blood from its lips with a forked tongue.

The blood! There was so much blood, and Malfoy grew paler and paler. Blood oozed from the tear in his chest in rhythm with his pulse. Harry kicked him. "Malfoy! Hey, Malfoy!"

Malfoy's eyes flew open; his head snapped up with a start. He drew heaving breaths, as if he'd been saved from drowning in deep waters at the last second.

***

Air. Oxygen. Pain. Cold. A weight on his stomach. Potter's green eyes. 

Draco moaned and sought refuge behind his closed eyelids. No, he didn't want to look at the thing that had crawled out of him. Or at the bleeding, shredded mess that was his chest.

"Malfoy," Potter said in his commanding Head Auror voice. "Malfoy, look at me."

That he could do. Looking at Potter was fine. Potter looked delicious. Not revolting. He wanted to kiss Potter.

"Malfoy, how are you? Can you speak? What happened?"

"Dying." Potter asked really stupid questions, tsk. "I was a Horcrux," yes, and a good boy, "and now I'm going to die."

"Don't you dare! Stop dying! That's an order! The fucking binding spell must wear off any second, and then I can … I'll patch you up! Or Apparate you to St Mungo's."

"You wish," Draco said. His vision was narrowing down already, turning blurry and black around the edges. "You said it yourself. To get rid of his soul piece, you had to let him kill you. Worked for me, too, it seems." He didn't have the strength to look at Potter any longer. His head sank back against the headstone.

"Malfoy, no. I forbid you to— Malfoy! Malfoy? _Malfoy_?"

From the cauldron, sparks were shooting across the inky sky where they mingled with the stars, so distant and cold and beautiful. It didn't hurt, Potter had been telling the truth.

***

Shouting at Malfoy wouldn't bring him back. Pale and still like one of the marble angels watching over children's graves, he would've looked peaceful if it weren't for the cruel wound. His blood glistened red in the strobe light the sparkling eddy rising from the potion cast upon the scene.

"Malfoy?" Harry whispered.

Malfoy slid down the headstone.

The ropes that had held his body upright had vanished. Dolohov's spell had worn off. Harry sighed. Dolohov had cast the spell on him much later. He didn't have the time to wait for it to dissolve, not with a soul sliver of Voldemort crawling around, eager for resurrection. He continued his fruitless attempts at breaking free.

***

Draco lay on his back, eyes closed, listening. The silence was absolute; peaceful. It was nice, lying here.

Nowhere.

Naked.

It was okay to be naked. Lying and listening and breathing was nice.

The air tasted of salt, and breathing was easy, easier than it had been for a long time. In and out, following the rhythm of the ocean waves surging up the edges of his consciousness. Actually, it was easier than it should be, given the terrible wound on his chest.

His wound!

Hesitant, afraid of what his tentative touch would find, he lifted his hands to his front. The gash was gone. His fingertips, used to tracing raised, ropey scar tissue, searched in vain for the familiar pattern of badly healed cuts. New, unblemished skin stretched pale over his chest and ribcage.

Dying definitely had its advantages.

Draco cracked open an eye and sat up. White nothingness billowed all around him, it was like waking up in a cloud. Before his eyes, the vapour formed into the wide curve of a beach. Sunlight warmed his back. Mighty waves surged high and thundered crashing up the gentle slope of sand. Ocean spray cooled Draco's heated skin. Hot sand moved under his splayed fingers.

Slytherin-green bathing trunks appeared at his side and he put them on. They fit perfectly.

***

An obscene slurping sound came from Malfoy's crotch. Harry followed the broad trail of drying blood from Malfoy's chest to his groin. Covered in Malfoy's still warm blood, steaming in the cold, the nightmarish creature lifted its head from the puddle of blood forming between Malfoy's legs.

"You!" Harry screamed, and reared up against the ropes once more. They held.

Eyes glowing over the slanting nose-slits, the small monster licked fresh red from Malfoy's trousers and ... _smacked_ its lips. Its lids fluttered shut and it moaned with satisfaction as if Malfoy's blood was a long craved-for delicacy.

"You," Harry said. Quietly this time, loading the world with all the hate and rage boiling up inside him.

It tilted its head and sized him up, then looked away as if he wasn't worth a second glance. With great effort, the short, malformed limbs barely any help, it slithered onto Dolohov.

Harry wriggled in his cocoon of thin cord, in vain. He ignored the chafing pain and thrashed around with all his might. He was furious, his magic crackled between his fingertips, ready to lash out. Concentrating more on the spell than on the physical bonds, he launched himself against the ties. They fucking _held_.

He searched the ground for the ghoulish baby. It met Harry's eyes with a triumphant glare and pressed its stubby hand to the brand on Dolohov's stump.

Tiny, feeble and helpless as it was, the blasted creature had Summoned the Death Eaters.

Harry almost choked with rage. His magic thrummed in his veins, his wand jerked in the tightness of his boot with bottled-up magic, and still he couldn't free himself.

The abominable baby flicked its tongue, tasting the air. Then, throwing Harry another confident look full of malice, it turned towards Dolohov's wand that had fallen from his hand. The crooked stick lay in the snow beside his right knee.

***

"Draco? Is that you?" A boat approached the beach. Draco squinted against the blinding brightness, shadowed his eyes with his hand. "Severus?"

Severus's hair fell clean and shiny down the sides of his healthy-looking face, but the black robes that billowed in a non-existent breeze were still the same. One foot on the prow, Severus waited until the boat washed up on the beach. "Draco, what a pleasure." His smile revealed straight white teeth.

"Severus … Am I dead?" Draco asked.

Severus shrugged and looked around. "That's the question, isn't it? Do you feel dead?"

"No … not really …"

"Then we will trust your verdict." Severus quirked an eyebrow. "Or would you prefer to be dead?"

"Is there … an alternative?" This conversation was growing weirder by the second.

"In your particular case, yes."

Draco walked a few steps, sat down in front of the boat and let the waves play around his feet. "My particular case?"

"It's complicated," Severus said. "And then it's not. We here on the other side," he waved in the direction of the ocean behind him, "we call it Potter's Sacrifice. I assume he told you about the night of the battle, when he went into the forest to be murdered by the Dark Lord's hand? The Dark Lord had threatened to kill all those close to Potter's heart, and Potter sacrificed his life to save them. By doing so, he activated some ancient shield magic that still protects you from dying by any curse or wound inflicted on you by the Dark Lord. Not even Dumbledore understood fully how it works, but the main point is, it does."

A longing expression flickered over Severus's features; his eyes looked right through Draco. "Potter's mother, Lily, she did the same. She sacrificed her life for his. Some here say love is the most powerful magic."

A misty doe formed out of the white foam whirled up by a wave and walked along the moving seam where sea met sand. Her hooves never touched the ground, but Severus seemed to feel her touch as she nuzzled his hand. "I believe it's the cruelest one."

He caressed the doe's head and neck until it vapourised in the heat.

"Love," Draco said, drawing circles in the sand with his index finger. "Are you saying I didn't die tonight because Potter _loves_ me?"

Severus rubbed his chin. "Not my exact words, but, in a nutshell – yes."

"And if I want I can go back? Live on?"

Severus nodded.

It was an easy choice. As easy as breathing.

Draco looked up from his doodling. "Why a beach?"

"It's what was on your mind. Where you want to be. Where you think you belong. It's a different place for everybody."

 _Oh_. _Uh-huh_.

"Can I ask you one last question before I leave?"

"Of course, anything you want."

"How did I become a Horcrux? How could it happen without me noticing?"

Severus gave an appreciative nod. "Excellent question. All I can offer is a theory. An educated guess, if you will. I believe it was an accident, resulting from another, far-reaching accident from many years ago. When the Dark Lord tried to kill Potter as a baby, the curse rebounded with such force that it split off a fragment of his already maimed soul. Unnoticed by both, it latched onto Potter."

"I know; he told me. But what does this old story have to do with me becoming a Horcrux? The Dark Lord never cast a Killing Curse on me …?"

"I'll get there. Bear with me," Severus said. "You know that Potter isn't an aggressive wizard, but prefers defensive spells. He has to be extremely angry to cast with malice. Unfortunately, during your sixth year, a former ... student's notes on experimental spells had fallen into his hands. Unaware of their potentially Dark nature, Potter occasionally tried them out." Severus paused, his black gaze resting on Draco.

"The only time he cast one in anger, you were his target. I'll never forget that accursed day he hit you with _Sectumsempra_. Some of these spells were dangerous, even lethal, and _Sectumsempra_ was one of the worst and most powerful. I managed to heal your cuts, but didn't realise at that time that more than your flesh was afflicted." He ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away the dire memories.

"Originally, Dumbledore and I were convinced that a Horcrux could only be created using _Avada Kedavra_. But the creation of the Horcruxes had made the Dark Lord's soul brittle, so the Dark power of _Sectumsempra_ , fueled by Potter's anger, must've been strong enough to cut the already fragile piece of the Dark Lord's soul in him in two. While one part remained in Potter, the other got carried off with the spell and settled in you. You were sad and desperate at that moment, mentally vulnerable, and the cuts were an easy entrance."

Draco shook his head. "It was Potter? Potter made me a Horcrux? Seriously?" He threw a handful of sand into the water. "Potter, Potter. I should've known right away," he muttered. "When, for Salazar's sake, is it not Potter?"

"It's the best explanation I have," Severus said.

Draco nodded. "It makes sense. What I don't understand … why did it stay quiet for so long?"

"I don't know." Severus lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture. "Again, I can only guess. It must've been too small in the beginning to do anything at all except survive and grow. Also, it was the last of its kind and nobody knew it existed. It was in a much more difficult situation than the one before who had Wormtail as a devoted caretaker. Perhaps it needed time to figure out what to do, alone and on its own? To grow and gain strength? To get to know you and learn how to manipulate you? To prepare for the day it would make itself known to you?"

"Likely." Draco shrugged. "It doesn't really matter anymore. Can I borrow your wand?"

"You may." Severus gave him his long black wand. Cold and smooth to the touch, it was of beautiful simplicity, straight and springy, without any carvings. "I don't need it here anyway. Put it to good use."

A flick of his hand, and Severus's boat floated backwards. "Take care of yourself."

Draco watched the skiff skim over the waves' high, hunched backs, until the clouds closed in on him and he was surrounded by silence and white nothingness again.

***

"Ah," Harry said to the small creature wending its way around Dolohov's legs. "I know what you're up to." He stretched his leg and hooked his toes under Dolohov's armpit. "Forget it, _baby_."

He gave a sudden pull. Dolohov's arm flew up in the air and thudded across the wand. The blood-caked beast hissed, its glowing eyes flaring up as it glared at Harry.

"I know," Harry said. "It's a hard lesson for every child. You can't always get what you want."

His last words drowned in a sequence of loud popping noises – Death Eaters were Apparating somewhere in the darkness outside the circle of light emanating from the sparking potion. The snake-like baby squeaked in excitement and wriggled off towards the cauldron. Harry redoubled his efforts to break free from the binding spell.

Masked figures appeared at the edge of the illuminated circle. Carefully, wands drawn, they approached the cauldron. Of course, that's where the Dark Lord had been waiting for them last time.

Harry lay slack against the headstone and pretended to be dead. Maybe he could fool them long enough for the spell to wear off.

"Potter," a voice whispered.

Harry peered through the curtains of his lashes, but couldn't detect anybody. "Who's there?"

"It's me. Draco." Malfoy groaned as he sat up beside Harry. Although the front of his robe still hung in bloodied shreds, the wound underneath, the torn mess of flesh and skin, had closed. Healed. Harry gaped, sure his eyes were tricked by the flickering sparks.

"You're not dead." His gaze dropped to Malfoy's hands. "And you have a wand!"

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. "Why you Gryffindors always feel the need to state the obvious escapes me." He looked around and cursed at the sight of the Death Eaters swarming the place. "Damn. So many already. Where is it ... _he_?"

"On his way towards them. Cut me loose, already!"

"Oh, of course. My apologies, where are my manners? But first ..."

The familiar warmth of a Disillusionment Charm sank over Harry like a veil and a few heartbeats later, Malfoy had disappeared, too. Harry checked the Death Eaters who stood together in pairs or small groups, talking to each other in hushed tones while throwing nervous glances in all directions. Macnair inspected the cauldron, shielding his eyes from the sparks with a hand, and Rookwood scanned the twilight zone outside the circle of light drawn by the potion. His gaze swept over Harry, over Malfoy, swept on—

and returned. The silhouette of Dolohov's body must've caught his eye.

" _Diffindo_ ," Malfoy whispered.

Harry jumped to his feet as soon as the ropes finally fell apart. "Headstone," he whispered, and hid behind it, hoping Malfoy understood. Rookwood might not look impressive, pockmarked and stooped as he was, but he was a perceptive bastard who would not miss fresh footsteps in the snow. Harry slid two fingers down the inside of his boot and fished out his wand. Then Malfoy stumbled over his crouched form, stifling a curse. Rookwood's slow, heavy footfalls came closer.

"Mother," a young voice rang from the meadow of light, "I'm freezing my arse off. Where the hell is the Dark Lord? You always go on and on about his glory and grandeur, but all I can see is a dirty stone cauldron spitting sparks. This is so old-school!"

Harry shook his head and shot a quick glance at the so obviously cheesed-off boy. He'd pulled off the hood of his black Death Eater cloak and, red-cheeked from the cold, he didn't look older than thirteen. Wide blue eyes looked forth from under a shock of black hair that reminded Harry of his own.

"Right." Another boy, the first one's twin, going by their similar looks, chimed in. He sounded bored and was flinging Tripping Hexes at a little girl. "Hanging around in a graveyard was cool in the eighties. Your Dark Lord should've thrown a party at that new club on Knockturn. That would've had style. Wilbur's parents booked it for his birthday party and everybody’s still talking about it. That place rocks."

Harry snorted under his breath. The new generation of Death Eaters was even more spoiled than the last one. The crunching noises of Rookwood's boots on the snow had stopped. Harry straightened up a bit to spy over the headstone.

"Dolohov?" Rookwood asked, raking his eyes over Dolohov's body. "What the hell …" he murmured, knelt down beside the unconscious man and inspected his maimed arm. "What happened to your hand, Dolohov?" He waved his Lumosed wand from side to side, but, of course, didn't find it. Instead he found the cut ropes and clicked his tongue at the sight of the puddle of blood and the other traces of blood Malfoy had left on the cracked stone. His wandlight cut thin swathes into the night as he stood up and peered into the darkness behind the grave. The beam of light didn't reveal anything unexpected – snow-covered tombstones, the face of a marble angel, ivy clinging to urns and statues. Rookwood frowned, looked back at Macnair, opened his mouth—

" _Petrificus Totalus_ ," Malfoy said.

Rookwood froze on the spot and Malfoy let him disappear from sight by casting another Disillusionment Charm.

"Too bad I had to do that," he whispered. "He was about to call Macnair."

"I know, but Macnair will come looking for him anyway," Harry whispered back.

"Yes, but a cry would've made everyone suspicious. Macnair on his own we can deal with."

As if on cue, Macnair looked in their direction and called, "Rookwood? Are you alright?"

"We need a distraction, something that entices them a fair way off, so we can search the place for the … for Voldemort," Harry said. "Any ideas? I'd throw the vial of Confusion Concoction from my emergency kit, but we're too close, it would confuse us, too."

"Mum, it's _cold_!" the first boy said. "If the Dark Lord isn't going to make an appearance soon, we want to go home."

"Shut your filthy mouth, Zachary! You too, Zebediah, and stop teasing your sister!" A witch – the boys' mother, apparently – spoke in harsh, clipped tones that sounded hollow because of the silver mask covering her face. The girl, maybe seven or eight years old, stuck out her tongue at her brother and – as was to be expected – was hit by another Tripping Hex cast by the other twin.

"Zora, stand up!" the masked woman cried, then addressed her sons again. "Don't let _him_ hear you talking in such a disrespectful way. He must be close, he Summoned us, he will—"

"A distraction," Malfoy murmured. "But of course! Wait for my sign!"

"Malfoy, what—"

Harry shut up. Shouting after Malfoy wasn't on, not with Macnair standing so close. Malfoy's light, fast footfalls faded away.

"Muuuuuum! Muuuuuuuuuuuuuum!" A blood-curdling scream cut through the night. 

Harry jumped and looked around for the source of the cry. Macnair did the same.

"Zora? Zora! What is it? Are you hurt?" The harrowed mother tugged at her daughter's arm to make her stand up, but the girl remained crouched, frozen in fear, eyes glued to the ground.

Harry had a strong suspicion about what had terrified her so much.

"Ew, Zora." Zebediah appeared at his sister's side. "What's that? A … a toad?"

Macnair rolled his eyes and walked towards Riddle's grave. "Rookwood, where are you?" Another step and he bumped against Rookwood who stood right in his way, hidden underneath Malfoy's Disillusionment Charm.

"Right here," Harry said. " _Petrificus Totalus_." A Disillusionment Charm for Macnair, another one for Dolohov, and Harry sneaked closer to where Zora had found Voldemort.

"A toad after an encounter with a Blast-Ended Skrewt?" Zachary bent down to poke the thing with his wand. "What are you, huh? The most disgusting toad on Earth?" The boy straightened up and the glance he threw his brother was full of mischief. Zebediah sneered and they fist-bumped.

"Zora, stand up. Zachary and I will take care of your little friend."

Zora swallowed and did as she was told. Clearly still afraid, she clung to her mother. Her brothers showed no fear, though, just the weird curiosity of rich, bored boys looking for trouble.

Zebediah crouched and poked Voldemort again. "I think I'll keep you. You'll make me famous! I'll be the owner of the most ugly toad Hogwarts has ever seen."

"Zachary, I won't have that repulsive toad in my house," the mother said, stepping back from the creature on the ground.

"It's just a bit dirty. I bet you'll like it better when it's clean." Zachary levelled his wand at the creature. " _Wingardium Leviosa_. Come, toad, have a nice, hot bath."

"Oh no," Harry said, "you stupid boy, don't—"

Zachary flicked his wand in a small arch, and the creature hurled through the air, hissing and squirming, and landed in the cauldron. Zebediah and Zachary hooted and slapped each other's palms before running after it. Everybody's eyes were drawn to the potion by the splashing sound.

"Oh Merlin, no!" Harry stared at the cauldron in disbelief, an icy surge of horror forming in the pit of his stomach.

"Toad soup," Zachary cried and started a kind of war dance around the cauldron.

"Toad punch," Zebediah chimed in and joined in his brother's performance.

Heads were shaken at the boys' behaviour, but it also seemed to have a calming effect. Talks were resumed, battle-ready stances turned into relaxed poses, wands were pocketed.

A low grumble and gurgling sounded from the depth of the big stone cauldron. Glowing golden now, the potion boiled up and emitted golden sparks from the bubbling surface.

Harry didn't like it, not one bit. If only Malfoy would hurry up with his distraction! Or if Ron would finally appear with the Aurors.

"Zachary and Zebediah, enough now," the twins' mother called. "Leave that potion alone. Now! The Dark Lord might have plans for it."

The easiest solution would be to vanish the whole cauldron including Voldemort. But since McGonagall had told her students that the things they vanished went into non-existence, meaning into everything, Harry had grown very careful with what he vanished. He definitely didn't want Voldemort to go into everything. He wanted him dead, gone, once and for all. A Blasting Curse, then. Though … The shrapnel would kill everybody in the vicinity. He looked at Zora, Zachary and Zebediah. No, he wasn't a child murderer.

He could do nothing but wait. And he'd never been good at waiting. He chewed on his already damaged lip. What was keeping Malfoy so long? And Ron, Merlin, he and Hermione must be dead. They wouldn't skip out on him like that otherwise, never. The thought of his best friends lying dead in the demolished shop, killed by Death Eaters, made Harry reconsider the Blasting Curse.

The potion kept seething and the golden glow intensified. Thick steam started billowing over the rim of the cauldron. Oh no. Steam was a bad sign. The cold surge rising from his stomach reached Harry's heart as the white vapour took on a green tinge.

"Ooooooh. Mum, look, over there!" Zora was pointing at the little church in the east. Rising higher and higher, a giant skull, glittering like it was made from emerald stars, was etched against the black sky. Blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, a serpent protruded from its mouth like a tongue.

"He's at the church," someone called. "The Dark Lord awaits us at the church! To the church, to the church!"

Lumosed wands lit the way as the group of Death Eaters weaved through the randomly scattered gravestones towards the church.

"Well done, Malfoy," Harry whispered, and ran to the cauldron. Blurred by the dense fumes, a dark shadow rose from the potion. Harry's heart sank, deeper and deeper into the cold block of ice in his gut. Malfoy hadn't messed up the potion.

Voldemort was rising.

***

Hood pulled down over his face against the bite of the icy night air, Draco leaned against the corner of the old church. The thick walls, built of big rugged blocks of some quartz-bearing kind of stone, glittered ghostly-greenish by the light of the Dark Mark tattooed on the night sky. Distorted reflections of the skull and snake glimmered eerily on the arched roman windows, the only vulnerable parts of the sturdy building.

He shivered, as much from tiredness as from the cold. _Morsmordre_ was a challenging spell after the whole ordeal that had already cost him the better part of his remaining strength. He blew on his half-frozen fingers and rubbed them together, listening intently for the crunch of boots in the snow. They must've seen it by now, and he knew no Death Eater who could resist the Dark Mark.

A breeze whispered through the few large trees surrounding the church, and something swooped low over Draco's head. He ducked, wand raised, and scanned the sky for an owl or another bird of prey. Nothing, all he could see was his own hand.

His own hand.

He looked down on his body. His shredded robe, the black trousers, partly stiff and caked with dried blood, his reliable Ridgebacks – it was all there. Someone had ended his Disillusionment Charm. He crouched, his back pressed against the rough wall of the church, and stared into the green-tinged darkness.

" _Expelliarmus_." Ghostly hollow the word rang between the sparse trees.

Severus's wand was pulled from Draco's grip, spun through the air and was caught by a black-hooded figure stepping out from behind one of the bushy yew trees. The mask hiding the face shimmered brassy in the emerald glow of the Dark Mark. Draco scrambled backwards on all fours, his robe catching on the rough wall. The Death Eater gained on him. He didn't attack again, just levelled his wand at Draco and closed the distance with long strides.

"Malfoy?"

"Weasley?" Draco sagged against the wall behind him and let his arms sink to his sides. "Salazar, you gave me the fright of my life." _Well, almost_.

"Where's Harry?" Weasley asked, urgency ringing in his voice, while at the same time Draco said, "What kept you so long? What are you doing here? Why are you not at the grave?"

Weasley shoved the mask up on his forehead and his wand tip in Draco's face. His blue eyes searched Draco's, full of distrust. "Where's Harry, Malfoy? I swear, if you let something happen to him, I—"

"Me? If I let something happening to him? Are you kidding me?" Draco clenched his fists. "Where were you all night? We waited and waited for you to give the sign so we would know you were there!"

"What sign? That doesn't make sense! We were waiting for your sign! The Homunculus Spell showed more and more Death Eaters appearing at the grave, but you two didn't give the sign. Then we saw the Dark Mark going up and thought we'd wait for the Death Eaters here, as they would surely come running to their beloved Dark Lord." He spat out the last words as if they were poisonous.

Draco sighed, closed his eyes, took deep breaths and counted to three. Then he flipped them open and glared at Weasley. "Where was I when you talked through that part of the plan?"

"Er … the loo?" Weasley said and shrugged. "We had a lot of tea that evening."

"That explains a lot." Draco put a calming hand on Weasley's wand and stood up, leaning heavily against the church. His legs and backside were cold and wet to the bone. "Potter was fine when I last saw him. At the grave. A few minutes ago. Something went wrong with the potion and Potter thought the cauldron might explode and kill everybody. There were children; I guess he wouldn't have cared that much otherwise … Anyway. We needed to lure them away from the grave, so I went here and ..." He pointed up at the skull in the sky.

Weasley relaxed and took his wand out of Draco's face. "Good." He pulled off his hood and tilted his head, a forefinger pressed to his mouth. "Your trick works, they are coming. We'll give them a hearty welcome. You go and look after Harry. Here, your wand." He held it out for Draco to take, tip pointed towards himself. "Don't forget to obliterate your tracks, you were easy to spot."

Draco grabbed his wand and groaned. Weasley was right. His footsteps would lead even the most untrained eye directly to where he was standing. "Weasley," he whispered. "Did you see the Dark Lord on the map?"

Weasley didn't reply, he had already disappeared behind the yew tree. The snow glistened untouched in the green glow from above.

***

Harry stood at the cauldron, close enough for the hot stone to warm his exhausted body. Eyes and wand aimed at the centre, he waited. The steam swirled, the golden liquid rippled, and—

Harry squinted. Took a step to the side. Cocked his head. Bent forward.

The dark silhouette was rather small, actually. And it didn't move, exactly, it ... rather bobbed up and down on the boiling surface of the potion, pushed around by the bubbles rising from the bottom of the cauldron.

" _Wingardium Leviosa_."

Following the movement of Harry's wand, the small thing rose from the potion and the vapour. The red eyes had lost their glow. Dull and milky pink, they stared at the Dark Mark hovering high above. It was Voldemort, his tiny, repulsive self. Thoroughly boiled, dead, gone.

***

Safely hidden by a new Disillusionment Charm, muttering an Obliteration Spell at his footprints every few feet, Draco returned to the Riddle grave in a wide arc. The headstones stood haphazardly in that old part of the graveyard, like rune stones thrown by a giant who'd lost interest and forgotten about them. Finding his way around them was much easier now that the green skull had risen over the church and shed its spectral radiance.

Hopefully Potter hadn't acted on his hero-complex and done something stupid. And hopefully Potter would back up Draco's tale about the cauldron being in danger of exploding because of the messed-up potion. It would be hard enough to regain Potter's trust, but Potter was a believer in the good in man, despite everything he'd been put through by others, while Weasley and Granger would never forgive Draco for having knowingly and deliberately put Potter's – and their own – life at risk.

The cauldron seemed abandoned. Sneaking closer, Draco searched the area around, still illuminated by the golden glow of the potion, for Potter. The fire under the cauldron had gone out and the sparking had stopped. Instead, thick steam billowed over the rim and down the sides, gathering in a cloud on the ground. Potter was nowhere to be seen. Draco's heart skipped a beat. A second. And a third.

Until he remembered the Disillusionment Charm.

"Potter?" he whispered.

No answer. Draco listened for any sign of life. A breath, the crunch of a boot on snow. Anything. But aside from the drifting smoke that pooled warmly around his feet, nothing moved. A tingle ran down Draco's spine. Something was wrong here, the silence had a strange quality, it was too quiet …

Someone pounced on him. Draco fell backwards into the snow, pinned down by the heavy weight of another person. The air was knocked out of him, the stars went out of sight, vapour encased him – it didn't hurt. It was like floating away on a cloud.

Heat warmed his back, and the air smelled of salt and summer.

***

"Malfoy, come on. It's me!" Fuck. Maybe Malfoy had hit his head on the cauldron when Harry'd jumped him. " _Finite Incantatem_."

The Disillusionment Charms on both of them lifted and Malfoy appeared, pale faced and blood-caked. But there was no fresh blood on his head. Harry grinned and fumbled for the smelling salts in his thigh holster. "Malfoy … Open your eyes, I know you’re not dead."

"Gah, put that away." Malfoy waved a hand before his face. "Potter, you bloody arse! You almost killed me!"

"No, you’re the arse!" Harry said, grabbing Malfoy by the collar of his robe. "You died on me! Not almost, but actually. Don't ever do that again!"

Malfoy's lips were astonishingly warm and pliant against his, and Harry's breath caught when Malfoy's fingers tangled in his hair, his palm cold at Harry's nape.

"I won't," Malfoy whispered into Harry's mouth. He slipped one thigh between Harry's, pressed himself harder up against Harry's aching body. "Though I like the consequences enough to ponder repeating the experience."

Harry ran a hand through Malfoy's fair hair – it was wet and lumps of frozen snow melted under his fingers – and down the side of his neck where his pulse was pounding. "They'll be harsh next time," he said. "I strongly recommend staying alive."

Malfoy's lips curved into a smile under his. "Deal. Can I stand up now?"

"No. First tell me why you're not dead."

"I met Severus. For me, it wasn't King's Cross station, but a beach. He told me I didn't die because you love me." Malfoy looked up; reflections of the stars made his grey eyes glimmer like mercury.

"He— what?" That it was possible to develop a blush when one was nearly frozen came as a surprise.

"That's what he said. In a nutshell. Come on, Potter. Shyness doesn't suit a Gryffindor. It must be true, I'm living proof!" Malfoy grinned like a Cheshire cat.

Harry spared himself thinking up a clever reply. "Shut up, Malfoy," he said, and saw to it by kissing him again. "At least your basic bodily functions are intact. Let's finish here and continue this conversation somewhere dry and warm," he murmured a few minutes later.

He climbed off Malfoy and offered a hand to help him up.

"Excellent idea. I'm chilled to the bone." Malfoy let himself be pulled off the ground. Brushing snow from his ragged clothes, he looked around and asked, "What happened? Where is it … _he_?" He gave Harry a once-over and cocked his head, pushing a strand out of his eyes. "You look utterly content. Did you kill him? Again? Where's your cloak?"

"No, you and the twins did all the work. Come, look for yourself." Harry pointed at a bundle, half-hidden by the steam. With a flick of his wand, he folded back the upper part of his cloak. "You messed up the potion, and they cooked him to death."

Malfoy stared down at the small creature that even in death did not provoke pity. "What are you going to do with him?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "I didn't think of it yet. Bury it? Put it in a glass of formalin?"

"No," Malfoy said, "I have a better idea. You said you wanted him gone, completely, once and for all, right?"

"Absolutely. Wait, what's that?" Harry pushed Malfoy behind him to shield him and levelled his wand tip at something that was whirling up the vapour, coming at them at high speed. As hard as he tried, he didn't get a clear sight of the thing approaching them. It seemed to blend in with the steam, but moved a lot faster than the lazy drifting fume. Skidding to a stop three or four feet away, it lifted its head over the steam and Harry recognised it.

"Death Eaters are captured. No losses on our side. 'Mione says hi. Hope you're good. Firecall in the morning," said Ron's patronus, a wispy Jack Russell.

"Oh thank Merlin," Harry said, wand hand dropping to his side. "They’re well. Did Ron tell you what took him so long?"

"Yes." Malfoy stifled a yawn. "Can I tell you later? I'd like to get rid of the Cooked Lord and have a shower and then I want to sleep for a day or two."

"Fine with me. Just one thing before we Apparate."

***

Draco watched Potter raise his wand at the stars and shout, " _Expecto Patronum_!" The famous silver stag shot from the wand tip and turned expectantly to Potter.

"Tell Ron that Dolohov, Rookwood and Macnair are waiting for arrest at Riddle's grave under _Petrificus Totalus_ and a Disillusionment Charm. He'll have to send a team to take care of the three. Also, the people of Little Hangleton should be Obliviated," Potter told it.

The majestic patronus tilted its head in understanding and galloped away until its white glow vanished between the tombstones.

"Where now?" Potter asked and picked up the bundle containing the Cooked Lord. "What are your plans for him?"

Draco grinned. "You'll like it, I promise. And he's not the only one I have plans for. Though I'm afraid those have to wait until tomorrow. Side-Along okay?" Barely waiting for Potter's nod Draco grabbed his arm and twirled on the spot. The nauseating tug behind the navel was as awful as always, and he held his breath until the feeling subsided. They popped into existence inside his shop, glass shards crunching under their boots.

"What the hell happened here?" he asked, gaping at the shattered windows rimmed by the red glow of the official wards the Aurors used to mark and protect a crime scene. He ran a finger over the curse burns on the armchairs and gestured at the destroyed shelves that had buried their contents beneath broken boards. "A battle?"

"Long story. Can we trade reports in the morning? Or evening?" Potter looked outside where the first windows lit up in the grey wolflight of the new day.

"Great idea. Come." Draco led the way to his storage room. The door squeaked familiarly as he opened it. "Put him down. You don't want to keep the cloak, do you?"

Potter shuddered exaggeratedly. "No way, ew." He lay the bundle on the flagged floor and flicked it open. And flinched as a small shadow scuttled forth from under one of the shelves.

"May I introduce you to the best mouser on Knockturn?" Draco said, pointing with a big ta-dah-gesture at Mrs Faggle's book. It slowed down at the sight of the tiny corpse and gave a bewildered rustle of pages. Then, when nobody shooed it away, it stalked closer, balancing on one board and using the pages to carefully roll over on the other. It parted in the middle, swung one board and half of the pages in the air and fell wide open on the Cooked Lord as if he were the most delicious food in the world.

Potter stepped back, mouth twisted in disgust. "Merlin, Malfoy! That's … I—" He ran a hand through his half-frozen hair, his green eyes wide and questioning as he swallowed hard.

"My carnivorous softback. They are very rare. I must admit, I didn't expect that much enthusiasm, either," Draco said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well … It never had Cooked Lord before, only raw mice. Any change might be nice after a lifetime of living off mice. And the occasional spider. Or beetle."

"Not helpful," Potter said. "Shut up, Malfoy, you're only making it worse." He threw a last glance at the book that pressed itself down on the body. "Though, in a weird way, it's a fitting end. I bet Voldemort always wanted to enter the history books."

"It's not a history bo—" Draco couldn't finish his sentence. Potter had captured his mouth and was walking him backwards out of the room. Kicking the door shut behind them, he murmured, "Shut up, Malfoy. Don't you know anything better to do with your mouth?"

***

Draco admired himself in Madam Malkin's big mirror. His new cloak, Norwegian Ridgeback hide lined with finest black Wiltshire sheepskin, looked splendid with his gloves and boots. Now all he needed was a hat to complete his outfit. Madam Malkin had told him to wait because she wanted to search the storage room for a certain one she couldn't find in the shop.

All was well. Potter had sworn to keep the Horcrux episode a secret. Weasley and Granger had successfully led the capture of all Death Eaters the Dark Lord had Summoned via Dolohov's mark including Rookwood, Macnair, and Dolohov who still was in coma. Everybody living in Little Hangleton had been Obliviated because it was impossible to know who might've seen the Dark Mark rising over the graveyard and who hadn't. And the _Prophet_ had run a fat headline telling everybody that the rumour about a new Horcrux had been exactly that – a rumour. Granger had been hit by a nasty Stunner during the attack on Draco's shop, toppled over backwards into the fireplace and nearly burned off all of her hair, but Weasley had prevented the worst by casting a gallant _Aguamenti_.

Last, though no way least, Draco had fed the Dark Lord's tiny corpse to Mrs Faggle's book and it had followed him around like a puppy since, begging for more. Life had returned to normal.

Except for some nice changes. Potter had developed the habit of Flooing by five or six times a day for secret snogging sessions in the back office. And he was an exceptionally skilled kisser.

"Here, Mr Malfoy." Madam Malkin set a black leather hat lined with the softest Fake Niffler fur on his head. Peering over his shoulder, she said, "Now look at that beauty. I knew this one would be perfect for you. Norwegian Ridgeback hide has a discreet shine and a suppleness I miss in Hungarian Horntail. A sterling choice."

Draco smiled at his face in the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes had disappeared, and even though he was still pale, and always would be, he no longer looked ill. "Thank you, Madam Malkin. It's fantastic. By the way, do you happen to have another one of those? Maybe Welsh Green and Fake Niffler?" It would look gorgeous on Potter, matching his eyes, boots and Auror robe. A great Christmas present.

Madam Malkin went and fetched the requested from her storage room. He paid an immense sum, but after the long, icy night in Little Hangleton graveyard he'd never get cold again if he could help it. Also, Shacklebolt had cancelled his reparation debts, which made counting Galleons out of his purse and putting them down on Madam Malkin's counter an almost pleasant task.

Outside, he lifted his face into the pale golden light of the December sun and inhaled deeply. Warmth and oxygen, the best things in the world. Besides Potter. Oh, and a cup of tea would be nice. As well as catching up with Mrs McMillagan. The dear lady must be sick with worry by now – the last time she'd seen him he'd looked like death on legs, and then he'd disappeared. She probably thought him dead.

Frost glittered on the cobblestones and fairy lights twinkled in the trees. Draco winked back and fell into a brisk stride, eager for a cup of Darjeeling. Rounding the corner to Knockturn, he saw a customer waiting in front of his shop and hurried up.

The small figure scampering to and fro before the shiny new windows in dainty black ankle boots was otherwise clad in all shades of lavender. He should've known it wasn't a regular customer; the Knockturners didn't leave their homes before sunset, usually. "Mrs Faggle, what are you doing here?"

"Mr Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you!" The old witch smiled, her wrinkled cheeks round and red like baked apples, and shook his hand with obvious joy. She was enveloped in a cloud of lavender scent. "Your hat is exquisite! Such a fine hide, though, if I dare say so, I usually prefer woolen ones."

"I know," Draco said.

"Oh, do you? Anyway, I came to ask if you still have my book. The mice have reconquered the cottage and it turned out I'm allergic to Kneazle hair, you know."

Draco couldn't help but smile. "Of course, Mrs Faggle. I guess you would like me to bring it to Hogsmeade for you?"

She looked up at him with watery blue eyes. "I was hoping you would offer. You're a formidable young man, I knew that from the moment you knocked on my door three weeks ago."

Salazar, had it really been only three weeks?

"May I invite you for a cup of tea? We didn't get to that last time." Draco offered her his arm and she grabbed his elbow with the surprising strength he'd already noticed on his first visit. "Of course, thank you. I can't even remember the last time a young man asked me out for tea."

Draco walked her to Mrs McMillagan's tearoom.

"The best tea on Knockturn," he said over the merry jingle of the entrance door. "And Diagon," he added quickly, winking at Mrs McMillagan whose beady brown eyes lit up when she recognised him.

"Draco, hen!" She hurried forth from behind her counter. "I was so terribly woriat. No sign of ye since that attack on your shop! Whaur have ye bin?" She took his free elbow and led him to the table with the most comfortable chairs.

"That's a long story to tell for a man who suffers from a sore throat," Draco said. Spending a frosty winter night on a draughty graveyard in more or less wet clothes took its toll. "First, I need a cup of your unequalled Darjeeling. And one for Mrs Faggle here, too, please."

While she waited for the kettle to whistle, Mrs McMillagan flipped the _Open_ sign on her door to _Closed_ and served each of them a platter of scrumptious-looking Mince Pie. Finally, as they were all comfortably seated and clutching a steaming mug, Draco said, "Three weeks ago, I received a letter from Minister Shacklebolt, and letters from Minister Shacklebolt, you must know, always have the tendency to change my life ..."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [livejournal](https://hd-erised.livejournal.com/95047.html). ♥
> 
> This story is part of an on-going anonymous fest hosted at hd_erised@livejournal.com. The author will be revealed January 8th.


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